Conan, The Feathered Serpent
by Rob Rastorp
Summary: Conan's adventures in the mysterious land of Mayapan, intended to be the first part of a series.  Set immediately after the de Camp/Carter story "Conan of the Isles", based upon the character by Robert E. Howard
1. The Gale

_1. The Gale_

"Hard a' port, and keep the wind aft!"

So said Conan, but his words were all but lost against the shrieking gale that pounded the Western Ocean. Thief, warrior, pirate, mercenary, King and conqueror, the hero of a thousand adventures, his life had come full circle, from the frozen wastes of Cimmeria, to the Lion Throne of Aquilonia, and now amid the unknown seas and lands of the uttermost West.

Having surrendered his throne to his young son Conn to fight the fearsome Red Shadows that had assailed his lands, he had journeyed across the Western Ocean to the unknown isle of Antillia, accompanied only by a band of Barachan freebooters and his old friend Sigurd the Vanir, a pirate and warrior from a people with whom Conan's folk had long had a blood feud, but with whom he had formed a comradeship in blood and iron on the field of battle.

In Antillia they had slain the evil sorcerers who had unleashed the plague of Shadows, and defeated their dark gods – though only for a time, for the beings of the outer dark ever pressed upon the boundaries of the waking world, seeking a forbidden gateway through which to enter and bring chaos to the lands of mortal Men. Only the courage of those rare mortals who dared to stand against them, or the whim of fate, could stay their wrath, but nothing could ever satiate their hunger for the bodies and souls of the living.

Conan had fought against such beings of an elder age before, though not with relish; his primordial dread of the supernatural was as deeply rooted in his barbarian heritage as was his blood-lust for battle and restless desire to ever explore lands beyond the horizon. For all the wealth and women that had been offered him by the grateful inhabitants of that isle, freed at last from their cruel oppressors, he spent not a fortnight there after his victory feast before his old restlessness and wanderlust took him by the throat once again and pulled him away from dreaming Antillia on a course to the West.

Many of the Barachan freebooters had remained, happy to take wives from amongst its amber-toned, dark eyed women and settle in a now peaceful and prosperous land far from the hardship of life at sea, the perils of the Zingaran and Arogssean navies, and the looming threat of the gallows which lurked over every pirate of the civilized lands. But others were not content with the offerings of tiny Antillia, and sought eagerly for the fabulous wealth they were sure must be waiting for them amid these uncharted seas and islands on the rim of the world, and these lusty souls followed the Cimmerian as he took ship for the West. Others, red-bearded Sigurd the Vanir amongst them, took ship out of friendship with Conan, spurred perhaps by their own wanderlust and desire for adventure as was he even in the twilight of his years.

"By Ymir's blood and guts!" swore Sigurd, in a bellow loud enough to be heard above the howling winds, "this is a storm worthy of the seas off Vanahiem in the depths of Winter! Who knew the weather could be so foul in these sunny climes?"

"I've seen as bad off the coast of the Black Kingdoms," shouted Conan in reply, "and worse on the Vilayet."

"The Vilayet!" spat Sigurd, his broad face creasing with the disdain of the Western mariner at mention of the Eastern inland sea. "A mere puddle!"

"And yet many a ship with all her screaming crew have drowned in her waters," said Conan in reply. "The Vilayet's a treacherous bitch. See to it that is not our fate on the shores of Mayapan!"

"Aye, enough talk!" nodded Sigurd. "You there, scurvy dog!" he boomed, stalking toward a lithe sailor drenched to the bone by the foaming seas. "Secure those grub-barrels with a tighter lash, or I'll toss your worthless hide into the drink!"

Conan smiled grimly, leaving the aging Vanir to do his work. Without in the least dimming his awareness of all about him – the howling wind, the towering waves, the cursing and grunting of men hard at work – he turned his mind to the distant shore and the lands that lay in wait.

Mayapan! It was but a legend to the Antillians, a vast, unknown continent to the West that dwarfed their tiny island. Their ancestors had ventured there in the long ago, they said, but no living man amongst them had ever set foot on the mainland. Among the Hyborians, Conan knew, Mayapan was not even a legend, as were long-drowned Atlantis and Lemuria of old. It was a land unheard and undreamed of, wide open to the conquering sword of any man strong enough to grab and take it with both clenched fists.

It would, he knew, seem a strange irony to a civilized man that the King of Aquilonia, mightiest of the Hyborian lands, would give up both crown and kingdom forever only to seek a new kingdom in unknown lands beyond the edge of the world. Conan could easily have turned the ship east from Antillia, sailed across the Ocean to the coast of Zingara or Argos, and rode pleasantly inland to triumphant return in many-towered Tarantia. His son Conn, now King in his own right, would be overjoyed to see him, the people would shower him with praise at having delivered them from the threat of the Red Shadows, and he could settle into comfortable retirement in the rose-scented gardens and marble-walled pleasure palaces of sunny Poitain, safe, secure and honoured to the end of his days.

Conan could not imagine a more terrible fate. He was not a civilized man; he was a barbarian descended from a thousand generations of barbarians, a blacksmith's son born on the field of battle, and forged of iron and blood amid the dark forests, grim mountains, and icy fogs of his Cimmerian homeland. In truth, the Crown had long been a burden to him, and his palace a prison. It was not the having, but the getting that set Conan's blood afire.

To _be_ a King…that was a thing long grown tired and stale. To _become_ a King, by the strength of his own body, the prowess of his sword-arm, and the force of his will; _that_ was a thing worth living for, or dying in the attempt! Born to the worship of the terrible god Crom, who scorned all those who died not in battle, and whom Conan had long himself scorned as of no use to his own ends, Conan knew one thing; to die in a soft bed amid silken cushions, the weeping of gentle maidens and loyal servants the last sounds he heard before descending into the long dark of the underworld, this was not his fate. Conan of Cimmeria would seek glory as long as it was his to grasp, and meet the end he deserved; on the field of battle amid the clash of steel, the screams of the vanquished and the howls of the victors, just as he had been born.

With a start, Conan realized his mind had been wandering. Crom, he _was _growing old! This was no time for daydreaming. The sky grew ever more dark, and the waves ever higher. A cold finger traced its hands along his spine, as something told him that danger unseen was ahead and about them.

"Murillio, damn you!" he shouted to the man in the crowsnest. "What can you see through the gale! Are we not near land, nor any reef? Report!"

"As black as Nergal's heart, captain!" came the distant cry of the Barachan sailor. "I can't see a damned thing in this gale!"

"The come down here and get someone who can, you useless cur!" bellowed the Cimmerian. "Where is…"

The crash of timbers and rush of the waves cut him off, as the ship was smashed straight into a hidden reef! Flying through the air, Conan then found himself shocked by the coldness of the dark waters that closed about him. He kicked strongly, gasping as he reached the surface, turning about to see in which way lay the ship. Then a broken beam tossed by the angry waves crashed against his skull, and he knew no more.


	2. The Black Shore

_2. The Black Shore_

Conan awoke to the sounds of the crashing surf, his face all but buried in the burning sands. The sun was hot on his back, and his head ached as if he had drunk a flagon of the cheapest Kordavan wine.

Cursing under his breath, he slowly rose to his feet, swallowing with difficulty through his parched throat as his eyes blinked rapidly in the brilliant sunlight. He found himself on a long, narrow beach of black sand, the choppy waves of the ocean crashing against its shores, and hard by a thick, dense jungle of brilliant emerald-green foliage and exotic fruits and flowers. He was utterly alone; of his ship and crew there was no sign…

Crom! A pleasure palace of Poitain seemed not such a bad thing right now! He grinned at the thought, but then turned his mind to the scene about him. It was too quiet, apart from the surf and the wind, and all his instincts told him to be wary.

Out of the corner of his eye, Conan saw it and dodged instantly; a primitive axe, stone tied to wood by sinew, thrown at his head from out of the jungle to dash out his brains! With no wasted motion, Conan sprinted like a panther into the woods – he knew not how many attackers there might be, and his only hope was to take cover in the trees, no matter that his enemies were hidden there as well.

He was only a few strides into the jungle, thick with vines and foliage and rank with heat and humidity, when he stumbled into his antagonist; a short, squat savage, ghostly white paint masking his copper-toned skin, his heavy brow belying the feeble intelligence that flickered behind his dull brown eyes. The savage snarled wordlessly and moved to jab Conan with a spear, also made of sharpened stone bound to a wooden shaft by sinew. But the Cimmerian was too quick for him; in the blink of an eye he closed the distance, grabbed the savage by the scruff of the neck, and tore out his heavy throat in a shower of gore!

The savage floundered noiselessly as he dropped to his death, drenched in a spreading plume of his own blood on the soft jungle floor. Grunting in satisfaction, Conan seized the spear before it fell to the ground. By Crom, at least he now had a weapon!

The leaves rustled behind him, the air echoing bloodcurdling shrieks of other savages who smelled the blood of their fallen kinsman. Cursing his luck – of course, there couldn't be only one lone savage after him! – Conan dashed deeper into the jungle, for his intuition was that these savages lived along the shore and he could not rest for a moment as long as he remained there. By plunging deep into the wilderness, he would soon use his woodcraft skills to shake them off. A pitched battle he sought to avoid, for he knew not how many there were, and a primitive stone-tipped spear was not his choice of weapon. His sword he had lost in the sea before washing up on shore.

It was hard going through the thick woods, though Conan had seen worse. His native instincts quickly asserted themselves as he stalked noiselessly through the jungle like a panther, leaving no footprints and breaking no branches. His senses were acutely aware of every sight, every sound, from the cawing and cackling of strange birds, to the shrieking and gibbering of the savages on his trail – farther behind, now. Conan sensed now that there were perhaps a dozen of them on his trail, and in open ground he might have turned and fought them armed only with his spear. Still, he did not know how near he was to their dwelling place or camp, and saw nothing to gain from a fight that might soon turn into a pitched battle with all their kinsmen.

His instincts proved right, for after perhaps two turns of the glass he no longer heard or smelled any sign of the savages, and it soon became clear to him they had abandoned the chase in pursuit of easier quarry; or, perhaps, he was no longer trespassing on their territory. He slowed his pace, but remained wary for any threat. He was deep in the wilderness now, the ground gradually rising under his feet as the forest became even thicker and denser than it was near the shore, dragging at his bare legs and stinging his arms with thorns. The shadows were beginning to lengthen into evening, he was thirsty, and his belly was beginning to growl with hunger. It was time to take stock of the situation and tend to his needs before deciding how next to proceed.

Later that evening, Conan squatted under the makeshift shelter of leaves and branches that he had made, for it was pitch black now and the air smelled of approaching rain. He had drunk from the refreshing waters of a small, clear stream, and feasted on strange but succulent fruits which appeared to be of the same type he had enjoyed in Antillia; otherwise, he would not have tasted their flesh for fear they might be poison. This had dulled the pangs of his hunger somewhat, but it was too late and dark to go on the hunt, and he did not wish to bother making a fire to cook any meat or fish without benefit of flint and tinder, nor did he wish to give away his position till he had his bearings and better knew the lay of the land. Tightening his belt, he lay down and fell at once into sleep, his sun-bronzed hands still clutching his primitive spear.

Conan rarely dreamed, yet tonight his dreams were strange indeed. He seemed to be standing on a mountaintop, with stars above and below him, and a full, yellow moon shining far above. A shadow came over the moon, and grew ever larger; a serpent in shape, black as pitch, leagues in length, yet with vast streamers or wings growing out from it, beating against a silent wind. The eyes were most terrible; glowing, crimson red, their black slits windows into nothing. They froze his bone to the marrow…

Conan awoke with a start, instantly alert as a tiger. It was daylight now, and his belly growled with hunger.

"Crom!" he swore. "I am too old for such nightmares."

He strode to the nearby stream, drank deeply, and splashed his face with its cool waters. The dark vision of the night soon faded from his waking mind, and yet left him feeling uneasy. Yet he sensed no danger about him; only the forest with its cacophony of birds and other animals greeting the dawn.

Standing by the stream for a time, he soon speared a slender fish, and then two. He took them back to his camp, and laboured to make a small fire, carefully watching to make sure its smoke did not rise above the forest canopy. He grilled the fish on sticks, and then devoured them greedily; the flesh was white and insipid, but at least it provided him with better nourishment than fruit. He ate still more of the fruit he had gathered notwithstanding, and then quickly doused the fire, covering its site with fresh leaves, and took apart his shelter. Soon, to the eyes of all but the most experienced woodsman, there was no sign he had ever slept or eaten there.

Conan then turned to the stream, whose course he began to follow uphill, away from the steaming lowlands by the shore. He could not see more than two-score feet in any direction through the dense jungle, and yet he felt the ground steadily rise beneath his feet; clearly, some range of hills or mountains he could not see from the shore lay not far inland.

He wished now to make for a hill or mountain top so that he could take in the lay of the land and best decide his next course. Having seen to his own needs, the fate of his ship and crew was now topmost in his mind; he had seen no wreckage on the beach, nor any sign of his men, but then he had not time for a search either. He thought it doubtful that if any of them yet lived, they had been slain or taken prisoner by the primatives of the shore; unless of course they were greatly outnumbered, which he grudgingly admitted was not impossible. Once he had the lay of the land about in his mind, and spotted the site of the village or encampment of the savages if possible, he intended to return to the shore and carefully search it for any sign of the wreckage of the ship or its crew. Not only was it his duty to Sigurd and his other shipmates to do so, but he knew his chances for succeeding at anything beyond mere survival in this new land were far higher with even a handful of men to accompany him than on his own.

After some hours, the Sun waxing ever higher in the sky, the terrain began to slope sharply uphill, and the forest began to change, become cooler and more open, with grassy or flowery meadows lying beneath tall, slender trees. Conan could walk more easily now, and advanced rapidly in the long, steady strides of the Hillman born and bred. About the noon hour, he reached the summit of the mountain. The trees thinned out further to a bare, rocky outcropping, which afforded him the view he had sought of the lands about.

To the East, he could see the jungle lowlands through which he had travelled, and beyond them the thin black line of beach, beyond which lay the dark blue sea, calm and peaceful now. His far-seeing eyes could discern no trace of wreckage, nor even of the reef upon which the ship had floundered. Crom, how far had the storm tossed him before he washed up on shore? Nor was there any trace of a village or other encampment of the hostile savages. Perhaps they were far from their own homes on a hunting or raiding party; or, more likely thought Conan, they were so primitive as to use no fire and live in no huts, but merely to live in caves or even on the forest floor and eat raw whatever meat they could catch. The thought of their diet filled his gorge with disgust, but it was not the first time in his long career he had had a close run in with cannibal tribes.

To the West, and to the South, he could see only the mountain range on whose outlying flanks he stood, its slopes rising higher and barer for mile upon mile, though none was so high in these southern climes for any trace of snow to show on its summit. The mountains were far more to his liking than the sweltering, flat jungle lands below; a mountaineer born and bred, he could master any such terrain with an ease that would shock the stolid sailors of the Barachan Isles, or even his old friend Sigurd; the lands of the Vanir were flat and boggy, for the most part. The thought of Sigurd's fate caused Conan's brows to furrow and his deep blue eyes to smoulder, but he quickly put such thoughts out of his mind to turn to the task at hand.

It was to the North that he had the broadest panorama over the land; the mountains seemed to arc to the northwest, but the coast veered steadily northward, allowing for an ever-broadening plain. It too was thick with jungle, as far as the eye could see; and yet, on the farthest horizon, Conan's keen eyes could detect the telltale signs of several wisps of smoke, here and there. He smiled at the sight, for it proved that there were Men in these lands of a higher type than the coastal savages, and he would need the service of many true Men like himself if he were to realize his wild ambition of forging a new kingdom for himself in this unknown Western land.

A screech of fury snapped Conan's mind into the present, all his senses on fire as he turned back to the East, the source of the unwelcome sound. Instantly he saw the source of the noise; one of the degraded savages of the coast, covered in white paint, accompanied by some four-score of his fellows! They were half a league distant, but they had followed even his careful trail like bloodhounds on the scent, and now their keen eyes had spotted his silhouette on the mountaintop even from this distance!

Conan clutched his spear tighter and held his ground. He had seen no evidence these beast-men had arrows or other weapons of a higher type, and so for now he did not fear to be struck down from afar; their primitive spears, of the sort he himself now carried, could be cast only a short distance. Conan had sought to avoid a useless fight with these degraded creatures in a manner that he would not have when younger; but, now that a fight was on him regardless, he laughed savagely at the thought. Armed with but a stone-tipped spear he might be, but by Crom! these fools would soon learn what it meant to face a Cimmerian Hillman in the heat of battle!

"Come to me, dogs!" he bellowed in a voice that echoed for miles along the mountainsides. "Four-score white-painted sons of whores shall feast in the Halls of Hell tonight!"

The savages did not understand his speech, but they surely knew he meant to challenge them. Howling and screeching with fury, they dashed up the slopes through the open forest at a doubled pace, their red tongues lolling out and dark eyes glinting keenly in their bloodlust and desire for man-flesh. Conan waited calmly for their approach, till they were almost at the edge of the rocky outcropping. Some cast their spears from afar, leaving themselves weaponless as the spear-tips clattered uselessly at the rocky ground about Conan's feet.

Then, with a savage snarl, Conan was upon them! Leaping like a panther, he plunged his spear straight into the heart of his closest white-painted enemy, who howled in agony as the Cimmerian tore into his naked chest. Bloody spray flew out of the open wound as Conan moved like lightening, wielding the spear also as stave and club as the tore into his enemies, whose clumsy strokes could not hope to match his tigerish speed.

The bodies of screaming savages, their hearts, lungs, guts and brains staining the barren rock, piled up higher and higher for minute after brutal minute as Conan tore through them, his volcanic blue eyes blazing with insane fury as the blood-lust took hold of him. Soon, there were but two-score of the savages left, and they began to waver as even their dim minds realized that this was no easy prey, and none of them might stand if they continued to fight this terrible giant.

Soon the survivors turned and fled pathetically, Conan hot on their heels now; for not only was the blood lust still surging through his veins, but he would not allow any of them to escape and come back to stalk him again, or bring still larger numbers of their fellows onto his trail. Intent on slaying them to the last, Conan laughed grimly as one after another shrieked his death agony at the end of the bloodied, bent spear.

Conan followed the savages back into the open forest, whose flowery floor was now stained with blood, corpses and heaps of fresh offal, hell-bent on wasting the last five survivors. To his shock, one of them dropped to the ground in front of him, a green-feathered arrow stuck into his back!

Conan instantly turned on his heels to face the source of the arrow-shot, keenly aware that he was exposed and vulnerable to any archer in this place. Even as the last few savages fell and died before a hail of green-feathered arrows, he saw the source of the volley; a group of copper-skinned men of medium height, compactly muscled, with straight black hair, dark eyes, and handsome faces, naked except for white loin-cloths and green feathers worked into their hair. Unlike the heavy-browed savages, Conan recognized them as true Men like himself; but that made him no less wary, for he was well aware that a true Man was more dangerous and deadly than any savage.

These Men, armed with wooden clubs fitted with heads of polished stone as well as with bows and arrows, likewise regarded him warily, slowly advancing towards him with arrows drawn, but the simple wooden bows pointed to the ground rather than at his chest. Briefly glancing at the reams of dead savages scattered throughout the meadow and onto the rocky outcropping beyond, they continued their slow advance towards Conan until stopping ten paces short. Then, one of them, who had a single red feather stuck into a leather band about his forehead – presumably their chief – walked slowly forward, stopped within five paces of Conan, laid down his bow and arrow on the ground, and raised both hands palms outward.

Conan, instinctively sensing a gesture of peaceful intent rather than a trap, likewise laid his bloodied spear to the ground, and held his own hands up, palms open and outward. The other man then smiled, and walking briskly toward Conan slapped his hands against Conan's own and give a high pitched yelp. His fellows immediately replied with their own high pitched yelping, released the tension from their bowstrings and stared in mixed wonder and fear at the Cimmerian, smiling or gesturing as they talking eagerly amongst themselves.

Conan was relieved to find that their language, though strange to his ear, was clearly related to that of Antillia, of whose tongue he had gained the rudiments during his time there; helped, strangely enough, by its distant kinship to the half-forgotten Cimmerrian tongue of his youth. He pointed to himself, and said, as best he could in Antillian, "I am Conan, of the Isles and Lands to the East!"

"Conan of the Isles", said the man in front of him, and the others repeated the name. Then he pointed to himself, and said, "I am Tlaloch, and my people are the Xotancali, who dwell in the mountains a day's journey west of here. We know some of our kinsmen long ago arrived in these lands from the Eastern Isles, though no living man amongst us has ever set foot there; our people know of boats, but love not the water. Yet you are dressed most strangely, from head to toe in dirty dark cloth, and you are no kinsman to us, no matter that you speak our tongue; poorly, I might add."

The Cimmerian frowned, but Tlaloch shrugged. "I have never seen a man like you before, tall as a stone giant, and eyes the blue of the waters! And what is that strange thing which hangs from your face?"

"My beard", grunted Conan, who had not shaven since sailing from Antillia some weeks before.

"Never heard of such a strange thing before," laughed Tlaloch, who to Conan's shock reached forward tugged his beard hard! Conan resisted the impulse to smash the man in his face, and said calmly, "It is attached to my face, just like my hair. I'd advise you not to pull either."

"No doubt!" laughed Tlaloch again, and the others laughed with him. "But whatever strange manner of man you are, 'tis clear you are an enemy of the Hchur-chur." He frowned and spat at the name, and all his friends likewise spat on the ground. "Ever have we been at war with these scum, lower than any animal, who even eat the flesh of Men. Our scouts said a great war party of them was on its way, though rarely do they dare set foot outside of their own jungles – they know the mountains belong to us! Yet you seem to have done our work for us."

Tlaloch glanced about the clearing and the stony hillside beyond, and whistled softly. "You have no weapons but one of their crude spears", said he, "and yet you slew them all with ease – save the few you spared for our arrows. That is a deed fit for a true warrior. And if you slay these dogs, you may be a friend to us; at the least, you are certainly welcome to come to our village, and be a guest of honour at our victory feast. And I think you should meet my father as well. He is King of the Xocantali, and no doubt would love to meet you and hear more of the strange lands from which you have come."

"That I would love indeed," smiled Conan, whose stomach began to growl again as soon as he heard the words "victory feast." He stared shrewdly at these well-formed Men, who it seemed could be friendly enough, and yet were none-the-less warriors well-equipped in use of the bow and arrow; a weapon Conan had scorned in his youth, but had long since learned the value of as a mercenary, General and King of great armies. If his own crew were lost to him, as he feared to be the case, perhaps he could mould this tribe into a tool that would be of equal use to him.

"Yes, that I would love," repeated Conan. "I would be honoured to meet your King, and tell him what he wishes to hear of my travels and adventures."

"So be it!" smiled Tlaloch, picking up his bow and arrow from the ground. He handed his own stone-tipped club to Conan, indicating he should take it for a weapon in place of the bloodied and bent spear. "Come! I shall lead the way."


	3. The Land Between the Seas

_3. The Land between the Seas_

Just as Tlaloch had said, it was a day's march over open, grassy hillsides and mountain-slopes to the stone-walled village of Xocantal – whose King would more accurately have been described as a tribal chief. This village of low, squat buildings of heavy stone, surrounded by tilled fields of strange crops the likes of which Conan had not seen before, lay in a mountain pass which commanded a broad view to the East and to the West. As Conan reached the crest of the pass along with the party of Xocantali warriors, Tlaloch at his side, he realized to his astonishment that not only did it open up to a view of the ocean to the East, from whence he had come, but also looked upon an ocean to the West as well.

"Crom! I had thought this was Mayapan," said Conan. "Is this land merely a large island, and not the mainland itself?"

"The whole land of all the tribes and nations from here to far to the North is called Mayapan," replied Tlaloch. "Here it narrows, a thin neck between the Two Seas. The Seas do not touch each other anywhere, so far as I know, and this is no island. To the south lies the vast land of Quechaloc, where all is strange, and it ranges far to the east, west and south. Nowhere in the world are the Two Seas closer than in these parts of Mayapan, than in Xocantal, and our village has ever looked upon the seas of the East and the West."

"Say you so?" replied Conan. "At least then I am in the land I have sought."

In his youth he had sometimes tarried in the public courtyards of Numalia, and many of the Nemedian philosophers who held forth there had claimed that the world was not flat, as common sense would show, but in fact was round. Conan had thought them fools, but now it seemed to him this bizarre idea just might be true, such that this mysterious ocean to the West was in fact the same Eastern Ocean of Hyboria or the Thurian continent of his homeland, which he had many years ago seen from afar amid the purple-walled lotus towers of Peipeng in distant Khitai. The thought intrigued him for a moment; but he soon concluded that it made no difference to him, and he had no plans to sail the seas westward and find out for himself. He resolved to focus his attention on the task at hand; winning the hearts and minds of these strange folk, so they could be of use to him.

"So you have sought out this land on purpose?" asked Tlaloch, his youthful face inquisitive. "I shall not ask why, for you are our honoured guest, and it is not our way to interfere in the business of others who mean no harm to us. Yet perhaps you will wish to discuss such things with my father, after the feast is over."

"I look forward to it," nodded Conan, with complete sincerity. Winning the support of the King of these folk was surely the first step to advancing his own ambitions.

As the party reached the wooden gates of the village, they opened wide to reveal a throng of bare-breasted women and naked children, who ran happily towards the warriors, embracing them and congratulating them on what surely had been a victory; until that is, they set their eyes on Conan. Many of the children then screamed and scuttled off, while the women stood and stared, some fearfully, others it seemed perhaps admiringly.

"Peace!" cried out Tlaloch, as he stepped forward with Conan before the assembled throng. "This is Conan of the Isles, who has come from the isles and lands of the Eastern Sea; so he says. He single-handedly slew four-score less five of the accursed Hchur-chur!" He spat again on the ground, accompanied by all the warriors present, and the women too.

"His is a great warrior in his own right, and thanks to him our enemies are slain without the loss of a single one of our own men!" At this the women cheered happily, smiling now at Conan. "Thus for good cause he is our guest of honour tonight. Set to, show him his quarters, and let the victory feast commence!"

Tlaloch was then embraced by a dark beauty who had stepped out of the throng, and yet to Conan's practiced eye their embrace seemed familiar and not romantic. Then she turned and stared at Conan, her eyes deep and cool.

"This is my sister, Huitzlil, daughter of King Zumal," said Tlaloch with a smile. "She and her girls will tend to your needs, and see to it you are properly cleaned and clothed before the feast." Then he and his warriors dissolved into the throng, while Huitzil bowed gently before him. Conan felt his temples throb as he gazed at her long, dark hair, coppery, supple skin and perfect form, naked save for a short skirt of plain white cloth, but took care not to stare too admiringly at her in a land where, it seemed, bare-breasted women were the norm.

"You are welcome here in Xocantal, O Conan!" she said in a soft, firm voice. "As my brother said, I am Huitzil, daughter of Zumal, and I am here to serve you while you remain our guest. If my brother says you are our friend, then I take him at his word, and am happy to serve you in whatever way seems fitting to you."

"No doubt there are many ways," smiled Conan, "but for now, I need a bath and a change of clothes, so that I no longer dress like an outsider amongst your people. And no doubt I could use a shave as well; this beard is far too long," said he, tugging at his face.

"I thought that thing on your face some strange deformity," said Huitzil with a trace of a smile, "but if it can be cut off, so much the better! I and my serving girls shall ready you for the feast."

The feast was attended outdoors in the village square by all the men, women and children, from mere babes to doddering elders, and also by a washed and clean-shaven Conan dressed in a white loincloth of soft wool, though he was devoid of the feathers which marked the Xocantali men. It was a strange affair indeed to Conan; for, save for the fruits he recognized from Antillia, there was not one item amongst the gourds, porridges, stews, roasted vegetables, sauces, or meats which he recognized; save perhaps for one spicy dish which he strongly suspected was dog, and of which he ate but sparingly. Worse still, there was nothing to drink but water or juice, for it seemed these people had not heard of beer, wine or liquor any more than had those of Antillia – "Crom, I'd sell my soul for a flask of good Poitanian wine!" Conan thought to himself with a laugh.

Strangest of all was the ceremony which took place afterward, when what appeared to Conan to be a burning, aromatic stick was passed around the men of the village, and the smoke inhaled by each. Conan did likewise, as Tlaloch gestured for him to do, though to his chagrin he could not contain a cough when the acrid smoke reached his lungs. The men then laughed at him, which caused him to scowl darkly, but they laughed again and paid him no heed. Conan had seen many odd sights in his day, but to deliberately inhale smoke and fire was a novelty even to him. "Strange food to eat, nothing good to drink, and inhaling smoke for their amusement; Crom, do these people do anything to indulge their senses properly at all?" thought he.

He soon found the answer, as each of the young women of the village grabbed one of the young warriors and, to the raucous laughter of the children and elders, led him into her own hut. To his surprise, Huitzil then grabbed Conan in this manner.

"By Crom's guts, girl!" said he, "do you think to make sport with me in front of your own father, the King?" Conan gestured at the wrinkled man who sat alone on a carved pedestal of stone, green and red feathers braided into grey hair that was bound with a circlet of gold; the first precious metal Conan had seen in this land. He ignored his daughter, but hooted and jeered along with the rest of the elders.

"He would be angry if I did not," said she. "Every warrior who risks his life in battle deserves his reward. And despite your age, you are tall and strong; it is no great sacrifice on my part. Now come!"

Smiling, Conan followed her into her hut, where the sounds of revelry outside were soon drowned out by her moans of ecstasy as Conan made frantic, ferocious love to her dark, supple form again and again…

* * *

><p>The next morning, Conan stepped out of the hut of Huitzil – who lay in a much-deserved sleep – and strode directly toward the hut of Zumal, the King or chief of Xocantal. The King was sitting on a wooden bench in front of his stone hut, basking in the morning sun – for, knowing nothing of liquor, the Xocantali for the most part had no reason to stay abed the morning after a feast.<p>

"Hail Conan!" said the King, his face braking into a broad grin. "We have not spoken yet, but my son has already told me all about you. It is thanks to you all our brave young men came home alive to the warm embrace of a willing girl!"

"You are welcome, O King," said Conan with a grin.

"The feast was in your honour, and you are our honoured guest as long as you choose to remain here. Please! Sit beside me!"

Conan did so, and King Zumal then stared at him shrewdly.

"Of course," said Zumal, "though we do not make it our business to interfere in the affairs of others, unless they mean harm to us, I am very curious about you, and why you are here. From what far land do you come, and for what purpose? If, that is, you are willing to say."

"Fair questions," nodded Conan, "and if I were you, I would ask the same. I would repeat what I told Tlaloch; I come from a far land across the Sea – the Eastern Sea to you, I imagine, though in my land it lies to the West."

"We know of no lands beyond Antillia", frowned Zumal. "Only the rim of the world lies beyond; save long ago, when Xlantl lay above the waves."

"We also know of drowned Atlantis," replied Conan. "Long ago did it sink into the deep. But, you are wrong about the rim of the world. I know not where it lies, nor even if it exists. But vast lands lie far to the East, across the Sea, dwarfing in size this narrow land. To them your land is also unknown, and not even a legend."

Zumal appeared most disconcerted by this news. He was silent for some minutes, and then said, "Tell me then, Conan, why have you come here, far from your home?"

"To fight against the dark gods and spirits of Antillia, who threatened my people – so far was their reach."

Zumal's eyebrows arched in surprise. "A champion of your own realm as well? I know nothing of the gods of Antillia, though the gods of Mayapan in our own land demand a heavy toll. But you are not in Antillia now. What seek you in this land? Came you here alone?"

"Those are two questions," replied Conan with a frown. "I came not alone, but my ship was dashed against a reef out at sea, and I alone washed ashore – to meet those white-painted devils. I have searched from afar for signs of my comrades, but fear none made it to shore alive. Mayhap their bleaching bones lie down in the deep."

"Bah, the seas!" scowled Zumal. "We live between two of them, but on them venture not. Our people have no love of boats or water. A man is not a fish, nor a bird; he belongs with his feet planted on dry ground!"

"So my own people feel," smiled Conan, who was born in one landlocked realm, and had become King of another. "But I have spent much time on the sea in my youth, and have learned to live with her, though I have no love for her. She's a wily bitch to be sure."

"To each his own," replied Zumal with a shrug. "But still, you do not say why you have come to this land. If you wish not to tell, of course, I will not pry again."

"I am no longer young," replied Conan. "Fate led met to Antillia; but having crossed the long leagues of the sea, I am keen to explore these strange new lands. I want one last adventure before I go into the grave, and to die if I must in battle, not in a soft bed."

"You are a strange man indeed, and not merely in your looks," replied Zumal evenly. "I dare not say you are a fool, but for my own part I would far rather die in a soft bed, and surrounded by soft maidens too – though our beds are made only of rushes, as you have seen."

"Then to each his own, as you have said," replied Conan, taking no offence.

"Still, I confess that I wonder greatly at your arrival," said Zumal, more darkly. "My son is not a loremaster, though he should be if he is to take my place someday. But I have spoken with the shamans of other realms within this land, and know of a prophecy of one who will come from the East, beyond the Sea, though 'tis not said from which land. It is said he will bring great promise, but make war on the gods and leave great sorrow behind. I hope you are not he – and yet already you tell me you have made war on the gods of Antillia."

"They made war on me," replied Conan, "and I bow before no one, be he god, devil, or man."

"That is unwise," frowned Zumal. "The gods of this land are powerful, and they are not to be crossed."

"Then they should not cross me," replied Conan.

"I see there is no reasoning with you," replied Zumal with a sigh. "But we are in your debt, and I repeat you may stay here as long as you wish."

"And I am grateful for it," nodded Conan. "But now, I would ask a few questions of you, if you care to answer them."

"By all means," replied Zumal.

"Who are the other peoples of this land, your neighbours?" asked Conan. "I already know about the savages, of course. But you mentioned other realms, and I have seen the fires of other towns far to the north."

"There are many small realms in this land," replied Zumal, grunting as he straightened his aging back. "Most are like Xocantal in size, and each has its own King. Most speak our tongue, or one close to it, which is similar to that of far Antillia as you know. Others, those who live by the Western Sea, are quite different; they are taller than us, and paler, and their noses are bigger, though their eyes are dark and slanted and they look not like you. They speak their own tongue, and worship their own strange gods, and are more akin to the peoples of Quechaloc, far to the south, than those of Mayapan; we call them the Quechalnti, though I deem that is not their name for themselves. We Xocantali are at peace with them, for the most part, but often they are at war with Xlantlantaca, far to the north."

"Who or what is Xlantlantaca?" asked Conan.

"The greatest city and realm of this land," replied Zumal, in a tone Conan thought both fearful and reverent. "I have never been there, but 'tis said the merest part dwarfs our own Xocantal. There does the Feathered Serpent reign, and to him we pay tribute, as do all the realms of Mayapan – save for Quechalnti alone."

"I see," replied Conan. So this land did indeed have a civilized kingdom, and a powerful and wealthy one at that; a ripe apple to be picked, by the man who had ambition and means to do so. Conan knew well that the payment of tribute was always a point of grievance to any subject people, and that such grievances could be stirred up into anger and rebellion by one who knew how. But, of course, he continued to dissimulate his true purpose, and probe Zumal for more information.

"Who is the Feathered Serpent?" asked Conan, frowning at the name; it reminded him of his eerie dream of two nights before.

"He is High King, Priest, and living god of Mayapan," replied Zumal with a shudder. "He serves the greatest and most powerful of all gods. Speak not further of him."

"As you wish," replied Conan. He had never met a so-called living god who did not bleed and die like any other man, but he was wise enough not to say so to the superstitious Zumal – already the character of these people was becoming clear to him. He would have to search for the right spark to set the Xocantali off, and choose his time well.

"We have talked enough," said Conan then, adopting a bluff tone. "I am starving. What is there to eat?"

"More of last night's feast?" replied Zumal with a shrug, seeming glad to no longer have to discuss Xlantlantaca and its Feathered Serpent king. "I have already broken my fast this morning. Go back to Huitzil and ask her to get you something."

"I will indeed," replied Conan with a smile, and rising from his seat he nodded at Zumal in a gesture of respect for his age and position, and then returned to his hut. Huitzil was awake now, and soon kept Conan so engaged he delayed his meal for longer than he had planned.


	4. Slaves of the Feathered Serpent

_4. Slaves of the Feathered Serpent_

A month did Conan pass at Xocantal, exploring the lands about with Tlaloch and the other young men when they hunted or patrolled their borders, talking further with Zumal about the lands and people of Mayapan – though always Zumal turned the discussion away from talk of Xlantlantaca – and, of course, spending each night in the eager arms of Huitzil. The time spent was pleasant enough, though Conan soon began to grow restless, and fear that he was growing soft on a steady diet of strange viands, fresh air, sunshine and wenching.

The evening of the new moon, this peaceful but enervating time ended abruptly. The people of the village were about to take their evening meal when strange trumpets sounded from the pass to the west. Instantly, the Xocantali dropped their plates and implements, opened the gates of the town, and lined up along the square; men to one side, women to the other, all bearing an air both fearful and resigned.

Conan frowned deeply, before taking his place amongst the men. No one spoke a word, but he was shrewd enough to guess what was happening; the envoys of Xlantlantaca had arrived to collect their tribute.

The trumpets blew again, louder this time, and then a large party of heavily armed warriors appeared at the gate, garbed outlandishly in the skins and feathers of exotic animals, and equipped with hide-covered wooden shields, breastplates of wooden armour, and bearing spears or clubs lined with sharp volcanic glass. Conan could see through the gates a large number of half-naked slaves or captives with them, men and women, all bearing heavy sacks of food, feathers, or other tribute on their backs. They had a vacant-eyed and empty look, as if they had abandoned all hope.

A score of the colourful warriors entered through the gates and marched brazenly into the public square, sneering with contempt as they stared at the thoroughly-cowed Xocantali.

"Slaves and scum, all of you!" shouted their leader, a tightly-muscled, hawk-nosed man clad in the skins of a jungle cat, bearing a large wooden club, and wearing a magnificent wooden helm carved into the shape of a jaguar's head, supporting a headdress of brilliant blue and gold feathers. "None are fit for the Feathered Serpent!"

"O captain," said Zumal, stepping into the square, and clambering onto his knees with difficulty, "name your price, and we shall pay it, however humble are our means."

"Yes, I know you shall!" laughed the captain cruelly. He pointed to the men of Xocantal, and said, "Fill ten sacks of maize for us, on the double!"

Tlaloch and the other men bowed, and rushed off at once to do the captain's bidding, while Zumal remained on his knees. Conan stood as still as stone, and glowered at the haughty warriors.

"What are you standing there for, you lumbering oaf?" screamed the captain at Conan – perhaps in the dim light, he could not see clearly that the Cimmerian was not of the race of Mayapan. "Get to work this instant, or I shall flay your worthless hide on the spot!"

"And who will make me?" asked Conan grimly. "You and your band of women, armed with sticks and stones? Get you gone from Xocantal, or you will make your beds in Hell this night!"

The Xocantali, men and women, gasped, frozen in their tracks with fear. The captain and his warriors also stood rooted to the ground, stunned by this insolent display – clearly, it had been long since any man had dared to challenge them. But then the captain quickly snapped to, and began bellowing orders at his men.

"You five seize that dog!" he shouted. "You others take ten captives, five from the men, five from…"

He never finished his sentence, for in a flash Conan was upon him, his massive fist slamming into the captain's face, which disappeared with a sickening crack in a could of red mist. Even as the man dropped to the ground, Conan seized his war-club and began slashing at the other warriors, three of whom were struck dead before the others sprang into action. Half of them turned on Conan, one of them missing the Cimmerian's head with his club-swing by a hair's breadth, while the others turned on the villagers.

"Kill the dogs of Xocantal!" cried another warrior also garbed in Jaguar skins. "Let the slaves outside learn the price of disobedience to the God-King!"

The Xocantali screamed and wept, yet remained passive as half the warriors – those not fighting for their lives against Conan - began to calmly walk up and down, smiting each citizen they came across without the slightest remorse. Conan, who had set his back against the stone wall of a hut, was disgusted by this display of cowardice amongst his adopted people in this strange land, and while slaying another three warriors with his blood-spattered club, he found time to cry to the men of Xocantal:

"Are you then cowards, who cry like babies while your women and little ones have their brains dashed out? Stand and fight for your lives, you fools!"

Tlaloch seemed torn, his instinct to defend his people fighting against his years of indoctrination that submitting to the Xlantlantacali was the only path to survival for his people. Then he saw one of the warriors grab Huitzil, who screamed pitifully for mercy as a feather-clad warrior calmly raised his bloody club over her head.

This sight, and the fierce resistance of the Cimmerian, who he admired with a boy's ardour for his hero, caused something to snap in Tlaloch. Screaming incoherently, he plucked a stone off the ground and threw it at the warrior's face; the man shouted fiercely as he grabbed his broken, bloody nose, dropping his club to the ground.

"Kill that one!" shouted another warrior, gesturing wildly towards Tlaloch, but the youth flew through the air with all the speed bred of a lifetime of climbing the mountain paths and stalking game in savage jungles. Pushing Huitzil aside, he grabbed the fallen club and brained the dazed warrior he had struck in the face, and then screamed defiance again as he prepared to defend his sister to the death against the advancing crowd of warriors.

"Tlaloch fights, as does Conan! So must we!" cried another young man, as they charged rashly toward the warriors.

"No!" cried Zumal, but it was too late; the warriors were already tearing into them, braining several young men even as the other young men of the village swarmed around them, desperately trying to tear them to pieces with their bare hands.

"Flee to your huts, all women and children!" then cried Zumal, who realized the situation had grown far beyond his control. As he did so, he turned to the older men who still lived, and said, "Rush to your huts and arm yourselves! All these foreigners must die so that none may bring word of Conan's deeds back to Xlantlantaca! It is our only hope!"

The older men did as they were told, though with no great speed; a score more young men had died before the elders began to emerge from their huts, armed with bows and spears. Meanwhile, Conan, swinging his blood-stained and brain-spattered club with a ferocious Cimmerian war cry, smashed the skull of the last warrior who still stood against him in a red shower of brain and bone, and then howled like a demon as he plunged into the crowd of warriors who fought tooth and claw against the Xocantali.

With the Cimmerian at their backs, and the enraged youth and somber elders of Xocantal at their fronts, the last of the Xlantlantacali began their dark journey to Hell, thought not before another dozen Xocantali, mostly unarmed youths joined by several of the elders, perished under their war clubs. Then the village was silent, save for the thin, terrified wailing of the women and children who had fled to their huts.

"That is how Men stand and fight!" bellowed Conan, pointing to the butchered corpses of his enemies. "All those men and women of Xocantal who died today are heroes, for they have led your people on the path to freedom! The time has come for you to stand as free men and women all, not slaves of the Dog-King of Xlantlantaca!"

"Conan speaks true!" cried Tlaloch, fired by youthful enthusiasm for his hero, and the rush of victory. "Too long have we men of the mountains bowed before the northern dogs. With Conan as our war leader, none can stand against us!"

This, of course, was exactly what Conan had hoped to hear, for he had subtly cultivated Tlaloch's support ever since arriving in Xocantal. His blood-lust satiated, for the time being, he grinned broadly. The other young men cried out in support of Tlaloch's words, though the elders were somber and silent.

"By the gods!" cried a strange voice from the village gates. "What has happened here?"

Turning towards the open gates, they found a handful of half-naked slaves, who had broken from the large party of their comrades outside when the tumult from inside the village reached their ears and now surveyed the carnage before them in amazement.

"No one has ever stood against the God-King and lived!" gasped one of them, a thin, stooped man of middle years trembling with weariness – or was it fear? "You fools of Xocantal have all sealed your doom, and ours!"

"To Hell with you!" cried Conan, who was not about to let some craven cur steal his thunder. "The brave men of Xocantal have finally done what you dogs should have done years ago! By Crom, no man, woman or child of Cimmeria would ever let himself be taken willingly into slavery – all would die fighting to their last breath!" Conan himself had by treachery been enslaved in Hyperborea in his long ago youth, and the very word "slave" was still enough to stir his blood with white-hot anger.

"I know nothing of this Cimmeria – a strange, barbarous word, that!" replied the thin man, holding his ground with surprising calm. "But you have sealed our doom, and that of all our kinfolk in their home villages, and that of these folk of Xocantal."

"Your doom was sealed as soon as you submitted to the yolk of the Xlantlantacali, meekly following them to their accursed capital!" shot back Tlaloch hotly. "How many more of all our peoples must die on the blood-stained altars of Kukulkan before we find the strength to resist?"

"Blashpheme not the name of Kukulkan!" replied an angry, yet elderly voice; to the surprise and consternation of both Tlaloch and Conan, it was in fact that of Zumal, King of Xocantal.

"But father," replied Tlaloch sullenly, only to be cut off.

"Be silent, whelp!" he shot back. Turning to the Cimmerian, and pointing grimly, he replied, "The slave is right. We received you as our guest, Conan, but now you have brought doom and death to us all. Look about you! How many scores of men, women and children of Xocantal lie dead tonight because of your rash words?"

"They lie dead as free men and women!" replied Conan, holding his ground firmly as Tlaloch and the young men of the village clustered about him, while the elders and slaves stood apart. "Their blood has paid for their freedom, and for yours, and you should bow down and honour them!"

"We shall bow down in sorrow," replied Zumal grimly, "but speak not to me of freedom. Do you think we would submit to the yoke of Xlantlantaca willingly? We are no cowards, but wise men. None can stand before the might of Kukulkan and his priest-king. On the black altar of the high pyramid of Xlantlantaca shall you die screaming for your deeds this night!"

"I'll wipe my arse with Kukulkan, and his little bitch-king!" laughed Conan fiercely, to the horror of the elders and slaves – even some of the youth of Xocantal gasped at this profanity, though Tlaloch smiled irreverently.

"Crom! Zumal, I had thought you were made of sterner stuff than this!" continued Conan. "I have seen more of the wide world than any of you folk even imagines exists, and I'll tell you this; there isn't a god in this world or the next worth groveling for, nor a priest or a king who didn't bleed red blood when clean steel was thrust into him – or whatever sharp glass you folk use."

"I know not what 'steel' is," replied Zumal, "but how do you imagine us hill folk can stand against the armies of Xlantlantaca? Ten times ten times ten its population exceeds that of Xocantal! They could crush us with their armies alone, without even having to invoke the power of Kukulkan."

"None of us shall serve or follow you, outlander!" cried the trembling slave to Conan, echoing the words of Zumal. "For I see now even in this dim light you are no man of Mayapan, nor even of Quechaloc; verily I deem you some demon in the flesh, sent to destroy us!"

"Then get the hell out of my sight!" shot back Conan, spitting on the ground. "I've no words to mince with cowards. I've scouted these hills for weeks; an army that knows them well could easily resist a force ten times as large for years, constantly harassing them and bleeding them white, growing larger and stronger with time as it heaped victory upon victory; and so we shall, if you have my generalship!"

"I shall serve you, Conan!" said Tlaloch fiercely. Turning to Zumal with disdain, he cried, "You are old, father, and know not of what you speak. The time has come for you to take your place by the council fires with the other elders, and for fresh blood to lead our people!"

"Aye!" said the young men of the village.

"Nay!" replied the elders. "We shall stay in our village, and follow Zumal, and not follow Conan."

"Then make yourselves useful," replied Conan somberly, "and see to it that you guard the women and children of the village while the men do the fighting on your behalf! And that goes for the rest of you slaves; if you will not follow me, then go home to arm and defend your own villages - those, at least who do not still wish to crawl on your bellies to Xlantlantaca and die like dogs on its black altars."

"Aye, we shall go to our villages," replied the thin slave, turning his back on Conan. "Our people must receive word of this disaster, and prepare for what is to come."

"Spread not the word, you fool!" cried Zumal, as the slaves departed through the gate. "Secrecy is our only hope now, though but a faint one; and the eye of Kukulkan is far-seeing."

Turning to Tlaloch, he said grimly, "You disappoint me, my son. You are not fit for the king's seat; but if the young bloods of the village want to die with you on a futile quest, I will not stop you or them, nor can I it seems. But be warned, Conan, none of the kingdoms of the hills shall follow you; you shall meet your doom alone."

"That is not true, father!" replied Huitzil. She had emerged now from her hut, along with some of the other women, and regained her composure. "I am young, but our women's cult has its own knowledge, and knows its own secrets. And all know the legends of this land. We know you men, too, know there is one power that can stand against the Feathered Serpent."

"Has my own daughter turned against me too?" cried Zumal, ashen faced. "How dare you speak of the secrets of our people to an outlander!"

"It is no secret," replied Hutizil, "for all who dwell in these lands know the legend. There is only one who ever stood against Kukulkan for a time, and whose power the Feathered Serpent still fears; one who dwelt amongst the forefathers of the forefathers of the Quechalanti of the Western Sea ages upon ages ago, and whose greatest servant even now sleeps entombed in crystal, dead and yet not dead, his talisman…"

"Enough!" cried Zumal. "I will hear no more of this; one doom you seek to fight with another even more foul! Those who wish to live out their days in peace, return to your huts forthwith. Those who wish to follow the path of madness, leave Xocantal now, never to return!"

"Shall I fight my own father for the kingship?" asked Tlaloch, his dark eyes glinting fiercely. "There shall be no talk of banishment here; we shall serve Conan in war, and he shall lead us to victory and freedom! You elders shall do as we say; long have you profited off our labours, and now the time has come for you to obey us!"

Zumal eyed his son darkly, while the elders looked to him for a sign. Then, shaking his head in resignation, he replied, "So be it. If you desire the kingship of Xocantal so badly, then take it; much good shall it do you in what little time we likely have left before the war-hammer of Kukulkan smites us in wrath. I shall indeed take my place by the council-fires, and leave you all to harvest the bitter fruits of your folly."

"While you're at it," replied Conan roughly, "you can make yourself useful by telling more of these forbidden secrets and the talisman of which Huitzil spoke; if there is any power in this land I can use against the Xlantlantacali and their demi-god, I mean to have it."

Conan was wise enough to know that a talisman or charm could help to serve his new army as a rallying-point and totem; and, sometimes, ancient baubles _did _have the power to drive off a shambling horror of the elder dark. Conan had seen such marvels with his own unbelieving eyes more than once in his long career.

"I shall say nothing more," replied Zumal sullenly. "I am old now, and tired. Learn what you will from Huitzil and the others; much good it will do you now."


	5. By the Farthest Shore

_5. By the Farthest Shore_

A month passed in this timeless land where the seasons passed not, and Conan, with Tlaloch and his band of followers – a mere ten-score in all – found themselves standing at the summit of a long, dry range of hills, looking over the savannahs below to the shimmering cerulean sea on the Western horizon.

It was no accident or chance that led Conan to this place, for he was following a plan laid out in conference with Tlaloch and Huitzil a month before. The day after their fateful confrontation with the warriors of Xlantlantaca, Conan had held a conference with all of his followers in Xocantal, and learned from them the legends of Mayapan; which, he cannily believed, he could use as the key to setting the land on fire with rebellion against the Feathered Serpent (for so the God-King himself was referred to, as well as the god whom he served).

It was said that long ago, in the days before the first Men, the elder gods had fought each other for dominion, each seeking out and claiming his own land or place to rule absolutely. From time immemorial did Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent from the skies, fight against Kuthlan, the winged and tentacled thing of the deeps. In time they came to an uneasy truce; Kukulkan would lay claim to the sky, but Kuthlan was lord of the sea, and both would lay claim to the land; some realms to Kukulkan, and some to Kuthlan. Yet it had proved that Kuthlan was the mightier of the two; it was Kukulkan who paid him tribute, and always he feared that Kuthlan would usurp his power and his realm.

Mayapan was a realm of Kukulkan; yet one of the terrestrial realms of Kuthlan lay not far distant, in the Western Sea off the coasts of Quechaloc, and amongst those Quechaltni who lived on the southernmost fringes of Mayapan. The Quechalnti were enemies of Xlantlantaca, and sent no tribute or slaves to the Feathered Serpent King, though neither did they make war on him save sporadically or in raids. This was in deference to their god Kuthlan, who demanded they pay tribute to himself alone; in such fear were they of their own dark god that they dared pay no tribute to Xlantlantaca, despite its vast armies, nor did the Feathered Serpent King dare demand they submit to his yoke, lest he upset the delicate balance between Kukulkan and Kuthlan against his own master.

Yet this was not all. It was said that an island far off the coast of the Quechalnti realm was a last remnant of a far larger land that once lay amongst the Western Seas, before it sank beneath the waves in the great cataclysm when the count of years began. The ancestors of the Quechalnti had lived in this sunken land long ago, before the cataclysm drove them to distant lands to the east and west, around the Western Sea; yet they were not its first inhabitants. An even older, unknown race had lived there before them, serving the god Kuthlan before their own ancestors had ever climbed down from the trees and walked upright as Men. The king of this long-lived race, it was said, was the mightiest of all mortal servants of Kuthlan; the power of his god was so infused into his own being that even in death, he died not. Some part of him lived on, it was said, in his crystal tomb; there lay a mighty talisman before whom the Feathered Serpent King, and even the mighty god whom he served, would tremble in fear.

Conan knew not if any of this was true; but Tlaloch and Huitzil swore up and down that the craven fear of many of the Xocantali, and all the neighbouring peoples, surely could not be undone unless the mountain folk felt they had a talisman that could defeat Kukulkan, the god of whom the Feathered Serpent King of Xlantlantaca was the demigod emissary and servant.

Conan was most reluctant to lead his small band on a fool's errand beyond the Western (or was it the Eastern?) Sea, when all his native instinct and military experience told him he should strike while the iron was hot in forging a guerrilla army to fight in the hills against the larger army which even now was doubtless being mustered in Xlantlantaca. He knew well that in spite of Zumal's wishes, word of the massacre of the Xlantlantacali warriors at Xocantal, and the departure for their native villages of the slaves who had been destined for sacrifice, had spread like wildfire amongst all the scattered peoples of the hills and beyond, and the name of _Conan_ was known to all, in fear and wonderment.

It would not be long before the Feathered Serpent King sought revenge; and Conan was less concerned with all this mummery about elder gods than about the huge army which would dwarf his own brave but tiny force. If a desperate venture for a magical talisman was what he needed to light a fire amongst the people of the hills and begin his military campaign against his now mortal adversary in Xlantlantaca, then so be it. It was far from the most desperate venture he had taken in his long career. And so he had left Huitzil behind – though not without a final night of passionate lovemaking – and then set off with Tlaloch and his men, in search of the talisman he needed to strike fear into the heart of the Feathered Serpent.

"See Conan!" cried Tlaloch, pointing to the savannah lands below. "We are spotted! Emmissaries of the Quechalnti approach!"

It was true; despite his age, Conan's far-seeing eyes could also spot the approach of a score of strange, red-robed, peak-capped folk, striding through the tall grass on their long legs – for the existence and use of mounted beasts of burden was quite unknown to all the peoples of Mayapan and Quechaloc.

"We wait here," replied Conan. "This is the border of their land, and these folk are ancient enemies of Xlantlantaca; if we can make the peace with them, and even enlist their aid, so much the better for our cause."

"The Quechanlti are strange folk, Conan, and not to be trusted", replied Tlaloch warily. "Let us not tarry in their lands, nor trust their sly words, but take what we need and depart quickly!"

"I mean to,' grunted Conan in assent. "And I am too old to trust any man before I've had a chance to take his measure."

The Quechalnti ambassadors soon approached Conan and his party, having climbed with amazing speed up the slopes of the grassy hills. Most of them were armed with short swords and small, round shields which Conan instantly recognized as forged of bronze – this was the first use of any metalworking other than gold which he had seen amongst the people of Mayapan, and at once emphasized the foreign nature of these people compared to those of Xocantal.

One of them, however, was unarmed, and wore about his neck a golden chain studded with strange, smooth azure stones of a type Conan did not recognize; this man, with a long, smooth, yellow face, a straight nose, long ears stretched and studded with gold earrings, and dark, flat eyes, he rightly took to be the leader.

"Welcome, Conan," said the long-faced man, his wide lips smiling strangely. "We have heard rumour of you from afar, and for longer than you know. We folk have our own prophecies; long have we awaited the arrival of the mighty warrior from beyond the Eastern Sea, who would slay the Feathered Serpent with his own hand, and thereby set the World on fire!"

Something about the way in which the man said this, his dark eyes cold and blank all the while, sent a chill down Conan's spine, and the feeling bothered him intensely. Yet he replied politely enough, "We are honoured by your hospitality. I am indeed Conan, as you have surmised. And you are?"

"Huanaco," replied the man. "We are honoured to receive the nemesis of the Feathered Serpent as our guest. And yea, we know what it is you seek in our land, though we shall not discuss it here. Please, accompany us to our city of Chirrpi – it is hard by the Western Sea, and from there you may sail to the place you seek."

"Mention not the thought of sailing!" said Tlaloch, with a frown.

"Aye," replied Huanaco, almost with a sneer, "we know you mountaineers are afraid of the Sea. We whose forefathers were born of it in the long ago have no such qualms. But come, Conan – time is pressing, and you have much to do!"

The onset of evening found Conan, Tlaloch and their party as guests of Huanaco, who was in truth the King of Chirripi, and no mere ambassador. Like the other inhabitants of Mayapan, to whom they were otherwise not akin, the Quechaloc of those lands were loosely organized into many small kingdoms amid the savannahs of the western plains and foothills, whose climate was far drier than that of the eastern jungles beyond the mountains. Chirripi was merely the nearest city of the Quechaloc of Mayapan to Xocantal, and therefore the first sought out by Conan.

This city was ten times the size of Xocantal, and built hard upon the deep blue waters of the Western Sea, whose waves crashed monotonously against the rocky shore in long, low rollers. Its broad, squat buildings were made out of cyclopean blocks of basalt, and Conan marveled at how any men could have moved such huge slabs of stone – he had seen no signs of levers, wheels, or any other such devices in Chirripi, or anywhere else in Mayapan for that matter.

Despite its mastery of bronze-work, the city seemed not overly prosperous, and its population, all clad in red robes and queer peaked hats, both men and women, had a listless, fatalistic air. They seemed to have little regard for the Xocantali, and Tlaloch and his men returned the favour. Conan noted their attitude with some concern, for it seemed he needed this talisman or whatever bauble it was to which the Quechalnti held the key if his plan to raise a guerilla army in the hills was to succeed.

Seated in the dusty courtyard of his palace on a throne of carved, dark wood, beneath a tarp of scarlet-dyed canvas, Huanaco had indicated a private audience with Conan was desired. Tlaloch and his party departed reluctantly, though Conan, who squatted on his haunches before the King, knew they remained just outside the open gates of the courtyard – only a handful of lightly armed guardsmen of Chirripi remained by the King, and Conan assured Tlaloch he felt no fear of them. Given Conan's repeated demonstrations of his talents at red-handed butchery, Tlaloch felt not inclined to disagree.

"So Conan," smiled Huanaco, "let us not mince words in idle talk. You seek the Crystal Isle, and there hope to find the talisman which alone can defeat the Feathered Serpent."

"I don't believe in talismans," replied Conan gruffly, though not entirely truthfully. "The bauble, whatever it is, seems to have some power over the superstitious hillmen with whom I've thrown in my lot. If so, then it is of use to me. If not, then I care not for it."

"Then you are a fool," replied Huanaco evenly.

"Few are those who have called me a fool and lived," replied Conan, with a frown.

"Fewer still are those who have crossed the Feathered Serpent and lived," replied Huanaco with a wry smile. "Your flayed hide will decorate one of the stone pillars of Xlantlantaca within a fortnight unless you have my aid."

"Then offer your aid, rather than empty words," replied Conan. "Or do you seek to haggle about the price?"

"Your work is its own reward for us," replied Huanaco, with, it seemed, thinly veiled laughter. "Destroy our enemy, and the god whom he serves shall be weakened. That is payment enough for us."

"The enemy of my enemy may be my friend – or he may not," replied Conan.

"As you need me, it matters not whether you call me your friend," replied Huanaco with a shrug. "Now listen; the Crystal Isle, which is in truth the remnant of a far larger land that sank into the sea during the cataclysmic age long ago, is five days sail west of this city. I shall provide you with a ship, and a crew; I doubt not that your friends among the Xocantali will refuse to accompany you over the waves, however loyal they may seem to you."

"We shall see," replied Conan. "But what am I seeking when I reach this isle?"

"The isle is the highest point of a ruined and half-sunken city, hoary with age," replied Huanaco. "At the pinnacle of this lies the tomb of the greatest sorcerer of that place. Open the door to this tomb, and the talisman lies within. Take it, and return here with it. Then I shall instruct you in its use against the Feathered Serpent."

"And is there a reason why you can't instruct me in its use now?" asked Conan suspiciously – more than once in his youth he had played the thief for an avid treasure hunter, only for the hunter to seek to dispatch him when the promised treasure was delivered. The result had invariably been both the treasure sought and the payment promised in Conan's hands, and a red sword for Conan as well – though his wealth was invariably dissipated in carousing and whoremongering…

"Conan, do you wish my aid or not?" asked Huanaco severely.

"What? Yes – go on," replied Conan sharply, cursing his wandering mind – Crom, he must indeed be getting old!

"It is meaningless for me to instruct you in its use before you have retrieved it," replied Huanaco, more calmly now. "When you retrieve it, you shall see why."

"I grow tired of riddles," sighed Conan. "Suffice to say you had better show me how to use this bauble when I return."

"I care not for your blasphemy regarding it," replied Huanaco darkly. "Kulthlan does not forget or forgive those who insult him or his servants."

"I care not what you think of my blasphemy against Kuthlan, Kukulkan, or any other dark god of this strange land," replied Conan. "My god is Crom, and he laughs at any man fool enough to crawl on his belly before other gods – he gives a man strength of arm and will at birth, and nothing more, nor does he expect more than courage in return. Besides, you need me as much as I need you – or you would have retrieved this bauble and used it against the Feathered Serpent yourself."

"Very perceptive," nodded Huanaco. "You might as well know there is rumoured to be a guardian of the Crystal Isle – nothing is known of it, save that it is fearsome. It is said only the prophesied one – whom I believe to be you, Conan – may challenge it and live. Whatever it is, avoid it at all costs, and return with the Talisman intact."

"There would have to be a guardian, naturally," replied Conan with a sigh, as he rose to his feet. "If it's flesh and blood, it had better avoid _me_at all costs."

He then continued, with a dark smile, "I am glad to know there is a prophecy in my favour; certainly it will make raising an army in the field easier. Now, unless there is more I should know, tell your servants to tend to me and my men, and ready a ship to depart on the morrow."

"All shall be as you desire," replied Huanaco with a cryptical smile, as he clapped his hands together and hitherto unseen servants approached silently. "Eat and rest well – and fail me not."

"Nor you, me," replied Conan. He trusted this Huanaco even less after taking counsel with him than before – and hoped he could convince Tlaloch and a few other Xocantali to lose their fears of getting their feet wet, so that he did not have to travel to this accursed Crystal Isle accompanied by solely by a crew of somber, cryptical Quechalnti.


	6. The Crystal Isle

_6.) The Crystal Isle_

Six days passed, and dawn saw Conan's far-seeing eyes straining to see over the western horizon. The fog was thick, and the waters were unusually calm for the open sea – at least to Conan's judgment, for never before had he sailed on the unknown ocean of the uttermost West. He half expected at any moment to hear the dim echo of a thunderous cataract, which in the legends of his people would mark the edge of the world, descending into primeval chaos. But he heard nothing other than the waves lapping against the straw-woven hull of the ship, and the scufflings and mutterings of its cryptical crew.

"By Crom and Ymir, what madman would sail the waves in a thatched boat?" Conan had cried when first seeing the bizarre craft at the pier – twenty yards long, and yet entirely woven from peaked prow to stern. Only the mast supporting the crimson red sail and the tiller were made of solid wood – yet somehow, the infernal tub managed to stay afloat. Conan attributed this entirely to the preternatural calmness of this strangest of all seas.

The crew was no more to his liking than the ship – silent, somber men of Chirripi all. It was with great anger and frustration that Conan had witnessed his own men, even the loyal Tlaloch, refuse to set foot on the ship entirely. Tlaloch had wept as he refused, but the fear of the sea was so deeply engrained in the Xocantali that not one man of Conan's party dared to accompany him, even though they all feared for his life. Conan thought this a disturbing sign, and hoped only that the courage of the Xocantali would not fail them in battle when the time came. Mayhap, he thought, this relic he sought would stoke the fires of courage in them.

Conan's thoughts were interrupted as one of the sailors then cried out in his strange tongue, which unlike that of Xocantal Conan could not understand. But the mists had begun to lift as the sun rose higher in the sky, and Conan could now see it clearly enough for himself – the sheer, translucent cliffs of the Crystal Isle.

For truly, this isle was not merely poetically named, as Conan had thought, but was entirely made of smooth, clear crystal! It arose sharply out of the waves, looking more like a vast, stepped pyramid than an isle, perhaps a half-mile across, and just as high. The rays of the rising sun shone strangely through it from the east, creating arcs and rainbows as they passed clear through to the hazy air beyond.

The sailors muttered fearfully amongst themselves, bowing their heads as if in reverence – it seemed to Conan as if they were chanting, and he doubted not this place was sacred to them. He tried to hide his astonishment at the isle, which drew closer with each lapping of the waves against the boat, and yet he was sure his sun-bronzed face must have looked dumbstruck. Of the many strange sights Conan had seen on his travels over the long years, this was surely one of the strangest.

Turning to the surly captain of the ship, who appeared as awestruck as the rest of the crew, Conan said, "Where can I land on this accursed pile? Is there a pier or jetty, or any low lying place, or must I climb the sheer cliffs?"

"Mock not the home of the gods!" replied the captain in a heavily accented version of the tongue of Mayapan. "An outlander like you should be put to death simply for gazing on the Crystal Isle! It would be so had our lord not ordered otherwise."

"You and your crew of whipped curs will be put to death by me if you make yourselves not useful!" shot back Conan, thumbing the glass-spiked club he had brought along as his chief weapon on this venture. "Fog or no fog, now that you have brought me here, think not I need any of you to navigate this floating basket back to the mainland!"

"Your threats do not scare me, outlander," replied the captain, his copper face flushing dark. "You are in the hands of great Kuthlan now; he will judge whether you are worthy of life, and to obtain whatever it is our lord has dispatched you to find."

"Then you can kiss Kuthlan's arse for me while I'm ashore," replied Conan. "No doubt it is your own yellow hide that will be flayed if I return not with the bauble I seek."

"For that reason alone I ignore your blasphemy," replied the captain. "As to your landing, all sides of the Crystal Isle are smooth and high, though perhaps pitted here and there by the elements over the countless ages it has stood here. A grappling hook and a rope are your only means to the sacred temple which lies at the top – we have such items in our stores. Great Kuthlan shall decide whether you survive your climb to the summit, and descent back to the sea, or whether you plunge to your death. Death has been the fate of all of those of whom we know over the long years since the founding of Chirripi who have sought the summit for whatever purpose."

"A Cimmerian hillman needs not Kuthlan's help to scale a cliff," boasted Conan. "Give me your hook and rope, and sail this tub close enough to shore that I can cast the hook from the deck. I'll trust you not to touch my war club while I'm away, for I'll only bring my knife as a weapon on a climb."

"A man of Chirripi has no use for the crude weapons of the Xocantali," replied the captain, fingering the hilt of his bronzed blade. "But we shall see soon enough if your boasts are idle."

Some hours later, Conan found himself dangling from a rope high up one of the sheer-sided steps of the island pyramid, noting ruefully that such a chore no longer seemed as easy as it had when we was a mere stripling who vaulted the cliffs of grim Cimmeria with the ease of a mountain goat.

The island was indeed a series of sheer crystal cliffs, roughly squared, stacked layer upon layer, each less narrow in breadth than the last, two-dozen fold to the summit. Each cliff was some hundred feet high, and it took all Conan's not inconsiderable strength and skill, and several attempts on each occasion, to cast his bronze grappling hook to the height of the cliff, and find an area of pitting or weathering that could give it purchase. Yet, Conan knew well not to trust his whole weight to the rope when he could not see where or how firmly it was anchored, but as much as possible to use what cracks or dents in the surface he could find to pull himself up with his own sheer strength.

It was a slow, laborious chore, and even Conan, now more than halfway up, found his arms and legs beginning to tremble from the strain. Just now he had slipped and lost his grip, and only the rope – which, thankfully, had been securely anchored by the grapple above – had prevented Conan's fall. The ancient, bleached skeletons which littered the plateaus on each level of Conan's ascent were grim reminders of the fate that awaited Conan should he fall even once – a sudden plunge to oblivion or, even worse, a slow, agonizing death imprisoned within a shattered body.

Cursing loudly and futilely, Conan carefully regained a toehold in one crevice, and then another, using his lion-like strength to pull himself to the top of the cliff, and carefully swung his leg over the side. Once safely on the flat, broad surface, he crawled a few paces inland, and then sat still for some minutes, resting and regaining his strength. The sun was already well past the noon-hour, and Conan was keen to redouble his efforts, take the treasure he sought, and then rappel down to the sea and the relative safety of the ship before the fall of night. Conan knew well from bitter experience what shambling, eldritch horrors could lie in wait in such a lonely and ancient place when no longer deterred by the clear light of day.

He was high up now – higher than he had thought – and only four or five levels remained to his ascent before he reached the summit. He still could not see clearly the temple or whatever structure perched at the top of this bizarre island, for the surface of the summit did not extend into his line of sight from below, and everything seen through the crystal cliffs and plateaus of the island appeared strangely distorted. The view deep into the interior of the island and beneath it was even stranger, as the light of the sun, scattered into rainbows, merged with the deep blue of the surrounding ocean in an ever-shifting dance of colours. Conan began to perceive that this island _was_ in truth a pyramid, which had been built eons before its foundations were flooded by the sea; but who had built it, to what purpose, and how they had done so on such a vast scale and of such strange material, was beyond his understanding.

From his lofty perch, which he knew would have driven many a lesser man sick with vertigo, he could clearly view the calm waters of the sea stretch limitlessly to the horizon in all directions, for the Crystal Isle was far beyond sight of the mainland. His ship was now a tiny speck, absurdly small in the vast ocean, which bobbed gently half a league or so from the island, its sails furled. Conan half feared the ship would abandon him – one of the chief reasons he had been so angry at the Xocantali for not following him aboard – but he had to trust to the sincerity of Huanaco's desire to obtain the treasure of the Crystal Isle, his eagerness to use it against his hated enemy, the Feathered Serpent, and the desire of the ship's captain and crew to keep their heads firmly attached to their necks.

His body rested now, Conan steeled himself for the final approach to the summit, for he planned no more rests until he had reached the pinnacle of the island. He dashed forward, cast his grappling hook, slung the rope around his broad frame, climbing with an agility that belied his years, and reached the next summit. Again, and again he repeated the dangerous chore, noting now that he no longer saw any bleached skeletons or any other signs of human presence at all – was he the first man in countless centuries to reach so close to the peak?

Another cast, another treacherous climb, another sprint to the next cliff-face, yet another climb – and then it was over. He swung his leg over the rim of the cliff, pulled himself to his feet, and then swore loudly, stamping his foot on the ground.

"By Derketa's rotten womb!" he cried. "For this I have spent a weak of precious time, and risked a broken back?"

For there was nothing on the summit, nothing at all! It was flat and smooth, and devoid of any features whatsoever.

Conan swore loudly for some minutes, contemplating how much pleasure he would take from slaying the idiot crew of the ship, strangling the treacherous Huanaco, and putting the vile folk of Chirripi to the sword. Near two weeks had been lost, in which the Feathered Serpent would have gathered his armies, and perhaps already may have marched them to the gates of Xocantal – all this time lost for an absurd legend without a shred of truth, to appease a pack of superstitious fools!

Twenty years earlier, Conan might well have done all the dark deeds of which he dreamed, and then returned to the eastern shore of Mayapan, built himself a raft, and taken his chances at sailing across the broad waters of the sea to the shores of the Hyborian lands. The Feathered Serpent could have kept his wretched Mayapan, and been damned with it.

But what Conan had lost in strength and endurance with age, he had more than made up for in cunning and wisdom. The belief in the treasure that lay atop this Crystal Isle was so widespread, and so sincere, amongst the peoples of Mayapan that Conan could not quite bring himself to believe it was without foundation. Calming himself with great force of will, he cleared his mind, and then surveyed the scene about him again, seeking for anything he may have missed.

It was some minutes later that Conan realized the answer to the riddle. He could not see the temple, because he was standing on its roof! The distance between the foot of this tier of the vast pyramid and the edge of the next beneath it was only half that of all the previous levels – Conan realized this asymmetry must have had a purpose. Moreover, peering deep into the depths of the pyramid from its apex, he could almost see what appeared to be a distortion of the play of light within the pyramid's core, seemingly not far below the highest level.

Guessing that there must be a hidden doorway somewhere on the level below, Conan walked back to the grapple, secured it in a safer position than it had been in during his climb up, and then rappelled down the sides of the temple (if such in truth it was) to the level below. He worked the grapple loose from below, wrapped the rope tightly about his frame, and then began to inspect carefully the temple's outer walls, looking for some crack or sign that might betray the presence of a hidden door.

Conan searched for some hours, and yet his search proved fruitless, even after he made the circuit of the temple several times. Taking a swig of fresh water from the small flask strapped to his hip, and chewing on some stale corn meal the captain had given him as provender, Conan again began to feel his anger rise, and to suspect Huanaco of treachery.

But then, just as the sun reached the western horizion, decorating the sky with brilliant shades of scarlet and vermillion, he could see it – the square outline of a doorway, facing west, its borders marked by a fracture only a hair's breadth in width. But it was enough, for Conan, employing the sharp bronze dagger supplied to him by Huanaco for the journey, clearly felt the edge of the doorway, and put all his weight behind an effort to pry it open.

With a groan, the crystal door slowly began to open outward. Conan saw with a frown that the bronze dagger was bending under the strain, but he no other tools to cleave the door open. Another push, and the door opened with a crack, a gust of rank, fishy air blowing out of the gap and into Conan's face.

Gagging at the smell, Conan straightened his bronze dagger as best he could by pressing it under his sandal heel, and then used his hands alone to pull the crystal door all the way open, his ears grating at the grinding, scraping sound as it slowly pivoted outwards. Then he gripped his dagger in his right hand, took a deep breath of clean air from outside, and strode into the corridor towards whatever was to be found within.

As he strode down the corridor, as wary as a jungle cat circling a trap, the stench increased, and Conan found he had to breathe through his mouth to avoid wretching. "Something must have died in here, and not too long ago," he muttered, though he had no idea what sort of being could have met its fate in such a strange and lonely place. The dance of colours inside the pyramid was dazzling, but the path now that he was inside was clear; straight forwards, towards an open doorway which led into the heart of the island. Conan thought he could see some sort of altar inside, but the play of bright colours amid the setting sun made it hard to see clearly.

At length, he reached the threshold of a chamber, square cut, and not more than ten paces across in length, breadth and height – tiny compared to the vastness of the apparently solid pyramid in which it was set. The source of the stench was now apparent, for in the center of the crystal floor, a well some two paces across sank limitlessly into the depths, its source obscured in the darkness that shrouded the base of the island beneath the waters.

"Rotten fish, perhaps," he whispered to himself; certainly, it was as if all the dead things at the bottom of the ocean had found their way to the source of the limitless shaft. But then Conan looked upward, and his jaw dropped in amazement.

"Crom!" he cried, as he gazed at it; on a crystal throne, on the far side of the shaft, there sat enthroned a skeleton, garbed in cloth of silver and gold, its every bone made of clear, clean crystal.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck as Conan gazed at the bizarre sight; what in the name of all the gods and devils was this thing? Was it a mere sculpture in crystal, its every bone and joint articulated in incredible detail? Had it been a man, a king or priest, who was turned to crystal by some dark sorcery, along with his entire temple? Or was it some fantastical being of an elder age, whom had always been made of crystal from the beginning, along with his entire city?

The skull was an odd shape, as were the hands and feet, and Conan had the growing and fearful sensation that this dead thing was no mere sculpture, but a skeleton in truth, and that moreover it had never been human. All the deep superstitious fears of his Cimmerian heritage rushed into his dazed mind, chilling his blood as the whole accursed island took on an increasingly sinister air. Crom, how had anyone even built the pyramid to begin with? How had they ever managed to ascend its sheer sides – or the smooth-walled, bottomless shaft in its interior? For how long had the grinning thing in front of him sat vacant-eyed, staring blindly into eternity?

His every instinct told him to run, and it took all his force of will to hold his ground, and remember why he had come to this place; to find the treasure he sought, and use it as a token or emblem to rally the people of Mayapan against the tyranny of the Feathered Serpent. But, where was the treasure?

Huanaco had been very vague as to what the treasure was, stating only that Conan would know it when he saw it. But, there was no treasure in sight, unless it was the robes worn by the crystal skeleton? They were unadorned with gems, but their cloth of gold and silver was elegantly woven, and might fetch a high price in some marketplace of civilized men – at least, if they did not know its bizarre origins, and fear it accursed.

Conan knew not whether he guessed right, but it was growing darker now, and his every instinct told him to take what he could and leave_._ He began glancing toward the well, for the more he looked at it – and smelled it – the less he liked it. Who knew to which of the pits of Hell it might lead? Better to take what he could and leave this place, _now. _If he guessed wrongly, he could always bash a few skulls together to whip his cowardly followers into shape, once he was back on the mainland.

Never a man for subtlety, Conan grabbed the cloth with both hands and pulled it off the throne, skeleton and all. To his shock, the crystal skeleton did not hold together as he had thought it would, but instantly shattered into pieces. The noise was deafening, and Conan again glanced uneasily at the shaft, fearful of what dark beings might have been awakened by the noise in a tomb which surely had lain silent for uncounted eons.

Glancing down at the scene of ruin, Conan was again startled; for the cloth of silver and gold had been as fragile as the skeleton, it seemed, and had disintegrated into dust as soon as he touched it. There was nothing on the floor now but shards and fragments – and a crystal skull. It was so thick and solid, Conan realized, that it alone of all the bones and joints of its body had survived the fall.

Realizing there was nothing else for it, and that he needed some trophy from the chamber to prove he had come here, and to justify to himself the dangers of the journey, Conan picked up the heavy skull with both hands, tucked it under his left arm, and then turned about, moving with all due speed out of the chamber and back towards the exit. He could clearly see the setting sun, hanging just over the horizon, its crimson rays shining straight into the heart of the island in a dazzling display of fiery light. Then, the sun slipped over the horizon, and all was soon plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the feeble starlight of a moonless night.

Conan felt the hair stand up on his nape once again, and an ominous feeling of being watched, all too familiar, chilled him to the core. The stench from the well had grown worse, even though it was far behind him now, and he was near the exit to the outdoors. The feeling of menace was almost palpable, and Conan _knew _that the shattering of the crystal skeleton had surely stirred up some shambling horror that it would have been far better to have left at rest.

Unwilling to remain inside the accursed island's depths a moment longer, Conan picked up his pace to a sprint, clearing the exit to the outside within seconds. Placing the crystal skull on the ground for a moment, he ran to the door – almost ran into it, for it was even harder to see at night than it had been in the day – and pushed at it with all his might, hoping to imprison whatever dark thing was no doubt surging up the shaft from the pits of Hell, hot on the Cimmerian's trail. The grinding noise was even louder as he pushed the door shut, and yet Conan was sure he could hear a soft, squishing, slobbering noise echoing up the corridor, as if some noisome bulk were heaving itself over the edge of the shaft deep within.

Then the door snapped shut with a crack, the foul stench was blown away by the clean ocean air, and Conan breathed a sigh of relief – thought he did not let his guard down for an instant.

Turning about, Conan again picked up the skull, and strode swiftly to the edge of the cliff. Though it was dark now, only the feeble stars providing illumination, his cat-like eyes allowed him to see better in the dark than could most civilized men half his age. While normally he would not have risked a night descent of the cliffs, instead camping on the heights and delaying his departure until dawn, his instincts told him that he was still in great peril, and he was determined not to spend a moment longer in this evil place than he had to.

Straining his eyes, he could just barely make out the outline of the ship bobbing on the waters far below – it had drifted perhaps half a league to the northwest since that morning. Unraveling the rope he had tied about himself, he secured the grapple by feel, for he planned to use the rope and grapple to swiftly rappel down the sides of the island's crystal cliffs – one-handed, for he needed to keep the skull secure - and reach the lowest tier in only a fraction of the time it had taken him to ascend to the highest. Then he would make the signal – striking a fire with a flint, tinder and some dry cut reed supplied to him by the captain, and waiting dry in his pouch – and wait for the ship to sail close enough to shore that he could make the final swim without risk of drowning in the dark.

Conan had just set the grapple in place, and was about to begin his descent down the first tier of cliffs, when a thunderous noise snapped him instantly alert, his every sinew on edge. To his amazement, he saw the silhouette of the crystal door to the chamber fly into the sky, only to crash with a heavy thud on one of the island's tiers hundreds of feet below. A sickening stench again filled the air, as Conan's pursuer surged out of the depths and revealed itself!

Even in starlight, it was revolting; for it had no form, but was an ever shifting, quivering mass of jelly-like bulk, black as pitch, now forming tentacles, now withdrawing him, its oily, gelatinous surface constantly in motion. It was the size of ten men, and made no sound other than the vile squishing and squelching of its ever shifting bulk. Like a hound on the scent, it quivered for an instant, and then rolled towards the Cimmerian with amazing speed.

His blood surging with terror, Conan instantly knew that the bronze knife he carried would be useless against a dark horror of such size and bulk – if indeed the thing could be killed at all. His only hope was in escape – and fast!

Rappelling down the sides of the cliff at breakneck speed, which surely would have caused a lesser man to plunge to his death, Conan reached the next tier below. He grabbed the rope, hoping to shake the grapple free – only for the rope to fall at his feet, the shrunken remains of the grapple pitted and smoking, as if dissolved in seconds by some caustic brew.

"Crom and Ymir!" bellowed Conan, for he knew he was trapped now – there was no way he could climb down the island's sheer cliffs in the dark, without a rope, and with this shambling horror hot on his trail – even now, its gelatinous bulk oozed over the edge of the upper tier, only to fall a hundred feet to the ground, splatter most disgustingly, and then re-form itself barely a dozen paces away from the Cimmerian.

Conan pulled out his bronze knife notwithstanding, prepared to sell his life dearly for all that it seemed futile, or in the end cut his own throat rather than be devoured alive by the foul creature. As it surged toward him, he laughed grimly – at least now he would not die an old man in bed, as he had long feared! Death reached out to Conan, who prepared himself to account for his deeds in life before the dark throne of Crom.

Then, a faint glow, growing brighter every second, shocked Conan as he realized its source. _The crystal skull! _It was glowing now with a white, pure light, brighter and brighter every second. Instantly, Conan dropped his useless knife and held the skull before him with both hands, as the brilliant white light seared the quavering bulk of the horror from the depths like brilliant sunlight scouring a noisome mold.

The thing did make a sound then – almost like a high-pitched scream or cry, Conan thought – and surged as rapidly away from the light as it had surged forwards moments before. It could not get far enough away, it seemed, as it plunged over the side of the nearest cliff, shrieking in the agony of the damned.

Conan could hardly believe his luck, but this was only the beginning. The entire island suddenly shook violently, as if it had been wrenched from its foundations – but Conan was not thrown down, for it seemed as if he no longer stood on the ground at all, but that somehow his feet were firmly planted on an unseen floor.

Staring with amazement, Conan watched is if in a dream while the entire island of crystal, shuddering down in its death-agony, began to sink, tier by tier, into the foaming seas, vast waves from its fall pushing the tiny ship of reeds on which Conan had staked his life far out to sea, nearly swamping her. And yet Conan, now hundreds of feet in the air, moved not, and fell not, and felt not the breeze in his hair, nor heard the crashing of the surf or the screams of the distant sailors. He stood suspended, detached, as if viewing a scene from long ago and far away which concerned him not.

Soon the crystal island was gone, drowned forever beneath the waves, only the foaming surf marking its resting place. Then Conan felt himself drift gently on unseen breezes, his awareness focused entirely now on the crystal skull he held in his hands, which blazed with brilliant inner light like a rival to the sun.

Conan blinked, and then started suddenly, as if he had surged from sleep to wakefulness in an instant. For a moment he knew not where he was, until he realized that he stood on the sodden deck of the reed-ship which had bore him hence, and which bobbed up and down like a cork in the violent swell of waves.

He thought for a moment on the whole strange scene, and thought that everything that had passed that day had been but a dream, and that he had never left the ship at all – until he realized that he still held firmly in his hands the crystal skull. Its glow was weak now and soon faded entirely, betraying no further hint of the awesome power that lay within.

Conan blinked again, and then realized that the captain and his crew were crawling on their bellies at his feet, awestruck with terror – some babbling chants or prayers in their strange tongue, while others moaned or gibbered incoherently, the light of madness in their eyes.

Conan surveyed the scene wordlessly for some moments. Then, his old spirits reasserting themselves, he grinned broadly, and held the crystal skull high above his head, like the trophy that it was.

"Is this treasure enough for you, captain?" he bellowed, while the captain looked up at him, his coppery face pale now with terror and amazement. "Has your god Kuthlan shown me his favour now?"

The captain could say nothing, but only nodded his head and bowed repeatedly, before resuming his wordless chanting.

"On your feet, you mangy curs!" Conan cried sharply. "Must I sail myself back to Chirripi now, after all the hard labours of this day? Steady this leaking tub, and then take me back to your king Huanaco without delay!"

"We hear and obey, my lord," replied the captain humbly, all trace of his former arrogance toward Conan vanished like the wind. He turned to the sailors, making frantic gestures towards them, and those who remained not crawling on the ground in their fear or madness pulled themselves unsteadily to their feet, bowing again before the Cimmerian – or the sacred idol that he held like a trophy before them –then setting to their work.


	7. The March on Xlantalntaca

_7. The March on Xlantalntaca_

A week passed in silence; none of the crew dared to so much as speak a word to Conan, who kept the crystal skull in his grasp at all times. He still trusted not these men, and at first half thought they might try and slit his throat in his sleep to claim his treasure for themselves. But, it soon became clear that they feared Conan almost as much as the precious relic he had taken, and kept as far from him as the cramped confines of the frail, leaking craft would permit. The skull itself showed no further hint of its power, and looked for all the world like some grim talisman carved by an artisan of an elder age, but having no great value in itself.

Then, the grassy hills of Mayapan appeared on the eastern horizon, and Conan saw the grey cyclopean towers of Chirripi from afar. Some time passed, until the ship came within a league of the stone pier, which lay at the foot of Huanaco's palace. Then Conan could clearly see the honour guard of Huanaco in their crimson robes, and Huanaco himself standing before them. Of Tlaloch and his own followers, troublingly, there was no one to be seen.

At length, the ship arrived at the pier, and was secured to it with lengths of rope by the sailors. Then, as Conan took up the crystal skull, all of the Quechalnti present prostrated themselves flat on the pier or on the deck, chanting in their unknown tongue; save Huanaco alone, who sank to his knees, but remained silent as he eyed the Cimmerian coolly.

"Well, here is your treasure!" cried Conan, holding it high above his head as he strode down the gangplank and onto the solid masonry of the pier. "And much effort did it take me to fetch it. But 'tis beyond all doubt a thing of great power, as doubtless you are aware."

"But of course," replied Huanaco with a thin smile. Conan liked the man even less than ever.

"Where are Tlaloch and the Xocantali?" Conan asked bluntly. "I expected them to be here to greet me. I trust for their sake they have not abandoned this city – and I trust for yours they have not met with a worse fate."

"It is not their fate that should concern you," replied Huanaco. Faster than a snake his coppery hand darted out, throwing a black powder at Conan's face.

But Conan was as wary as a tiger, and no stranger to the arts of the poisoner. Holding his breath, he dashed to the side, raising up the skull as a weapon to smash into the head of the astonished Huanaco.

An instant later, it was Conan who was astonished – for once again, the crystal skull awoke in his hands! Suddenly frozen in his tracks by a force beyond his own will, Conan watched in horrified amazement as bright, clear beams of light shot out of the skull's empty sockets, straight into the chest of the King of Chirripi.

The Quechalnti looked up, and then shrieked and gibbered in amazement as Huanaco's body caught on fire! In mere seconds, he was a human torch, his shrieks of agony soon cut off as his body burned to ashes before their eyes. Nothing remained of him save a dark, smoking scar on the heavy basalt stones of the pier where he had kneeled but moments before.

"Crom!" swore Conan, who suddenly was able to move and speak again. He stared in horror at the thing he held in his hands – for it held the power of life and death, and yet had a life of its own, beyond his control. Who knew on whom it might next turn its deadly power – perhaps even himself?

Yet Conan's fears were soon dulled by the actions of the Quechalnti, who now again prostrated themselves, all facing towards Conan. He could not understand the words they chanted, but felt certain in his guts that they not merely worshiped the crystal skull itself, but bowed before him as one who had not only seized the skull for his own, but could use its power to his own ends. He realized they had no knowledge that the skull was completely beyond his control – to them, it would seem as if he had used its power to destroy his enemy.

Regaining his courage now, he again held the skull aloft in his hands – it was dormant, merely a carved mass of crystal. "Such is the fate of all who oppose me!" he cried.

"We hear and obey you, O Conan!" said the captain, still on board the ship, in the common tongue of Mayapan.

"Aye, my lord!" said one of the guards on the pier, whom Conan took to be their leader. "Command us!"

"Where are my servants, the Xocantali?" asked Conan, glowering menacingly at the man.

"They languish in our dungeons, my lord," said the guard, trembling fearfully, and still not looking Conan in the eye. "Huanaco commanded they be sacrificed to Kuthlan."

"Does Tlaloch live still?" asked Conan.

"Aye, and all his men also," replied the guard. "All were drugged at a feast, and none yet slain."

"Then take me to the throne room of your palace, and release the Xocantali. Restore their weapons to them at once, and then bring them before me!"

"We hear and obey," replied the guard. He stood to his feet, bowed before Conan, and then issued commands to his comrades, as the ship's captain did likewise to his own crew. The guards then stood in formation, turned about, and marched quickly back towards the open gateway of the palace.

* * *

><p>"Truly you are the prophesied one!" cried Tlaloch, as he and the Xocantali stood in amazement before Conan at the foot of what had once been Huanaco's throne – a squat chair of stone in a grim, dark chamber lit only by several smoking braziers. Conan himself now sat in the throne, for all intents and purposes the new King of Chirripi as recognized by its own people; though it was a far grander city of Mayapan than Chirripi on which Conan now set his sights.<p>

"That I have brought this treasure back from the Crystal Isle speaks for itself," nodded Conan in agreement – the crystal skull was now balanced on the right arm of the throne, as Conan held it in place with this massive right hand.

"All the tribes of Mayapan shall rise up and follow you now!" said Tlaloch, his youthful voice high-pitched with excitement as his dark eyes flashed passionately. "Well may the Feathered Serpent tremble on his distant throne at Xlantlantaca when he hears this news. The hour of his doom is at hand!"

"That may be," said Conan – who wisely had told no one that he could not control the power of the Skull at will – "but we have much work yet to do. It is not only by the power of your gods, but by the blood and sweat of your warriors that we shall defeat out enemies and liberate this land!"

"Yea, we stand with you, my lord," replied the captain of the guard – Tihuanco was his name, though Tlaloch had rendered it into his own tongue as Tezcatlipoca. "Every able-bodied man of Chirripi shall take up arms against our ancient foes, now that the hour of doom is upon us. And so shall all the Quechanlti of the coast, soon enough."

"Then I leave it to you to send out messengers to them, and quickly," replied Conan. "We need to assemble them into an army in one week's time, for too long already have I spent here by the Western Sea, while our enemy has had time to move unhindered in the interior. Speaking of which, Tlaloch, what of the hill tribes? Shall they take up arms against their oppressors at last?"

"I am sure of it," replied the youth. "Word of your deeds surely is spreading like wildfire amongst all the people of this land, even now."

"Then it will soon be known to our enemy as well," said Conan grimly, "and unless he be a fool, he will strike quickly and in force against us, before the folk of this coast and the hill tribes can unite into an organized army to fight against him. All the more reason why I can brook no further delay."

"I shall send out our messengers at once, my lord," replied Tihuanco. "Though likely word of your great deeds already spreads like wildfire, as the boy yonder has said."

"One week," repeated Conan, rising from the throne. "Fail me not!"

* * *

><p>Near two weeks later, after the army of the Quechalnti had assembled as promised by the captain – some ten-thousand strong, with two-hundred Xocantali at their head – Conan found himself standing sadly before the smoking ruins of Xocantal. It seemed his prediction of the Feathered Serpent's swift wrath had proved all too true; for while Conan and his followers were away on their quest, his enemy's army had struck and struck hard against the source of the contagion.<p>

"Crom and Ymir!" thundered Conan. "Too long have I tarried on the coast, as I feared. Yet I see no bodies. Have they all been taken prisoner?"

"Taken for sacrifice, far to the north. You can see the trail left by the enemy into the northern mountains," replied Tlaloch somberly, a tear in his eye. "Even my dear sister Huitzil has been taken captive. In vain did you save her from the war clubs of the Jaguar warriors! Now she, my father, and all my people who did not follow you in arms shall perish on the black altars of Kukulkan in distant Xlantlantaca." His comrades appeared similarly dispirited, and some wept openly – to the scorn of the hard-faced Quechanlti.

"Crom! Have you folk of Xocantal learned nothing?" cried Conan, not bothering to hide his disgust at them – especially before the shrewd eye of Tihuanco, who stood at the head of the long column of men alongside Conan and Tlaloch. "Say rather the dogs of Xlantlantaca shall die on the field of battle by our spears and war clubs – and their bastard King shall die by mine own hand, or else by the aid of this talisman I carry!" He gestured with the Crystal Skull, as Conan had deemed its name, affixed now to a long stave of hardened bronze carved with cryptical runes, and forged by the smiths of Chirripi.

"Die in battle they may," replied Tlaloch, "but how shall we save my people in time? They shall be under a fast march, with the whip at their backs."

"If others of your hill rabble would join us openly, rather than cling to their mountain huts," said Tihuanco in a stern voice, "mayhap the progress of the enemy's army would be harried, and they would not reach distant Xlantlantaca in the north before we caught up with them."

"Aye, where are your folk, Tlaloch?" replied Conan. He still did not like or trust the Quechalnti as a race, but he had developed a grudging respect for Tihuanco as a practical and capable leader of men at arms.

"They are scattered widely in the mountain villages," replied Tlaloch defensively. "Our folk have never lived in great towns or cities as do outlanders. It would be a task of many weeks to assemble them."

"We have not the time to wait," replied Conan brusquely. "We must send out some of your men – a dozen, a hundred, however many you think are necessary – to summon the rest of the hill tribes to arms. Tell them what you must of this talisman, if they have not heard the tale of my deeds, and it is necessary to drive them to battle. The rest of your men and all the Quechanlti must follow my lead at once, hot on the heels of our foes."

Tlaloch was about to reply, when a thin, reedy cry of a horn or pipe echoed from the grassy slopes of the steep uplands north of the ruined village.

"To Arms!" cried Conan. "Form up in rows, spears and columns at the ready!" As his army rushed to comply, he stared up at the grassy ridge above the ruins and frowned; he had survived many ambushes throughout his long career, and knew that his men were at a disadvantage in a valley bottom, with swift flight possible only at the eastern and western ends of the pass.

"Those horns sound familiar," cautioned Tlaloch, even as he formed his own men into order. "I have not heard of the Jaguar warriors using them in such fashion, nor in an ambush…"

"Enough talk!" cried Conan. "We must be ready to retreat from this valley to the western foothills if a large army is before us. If it is small, we must pursue it into the hills and wipe it out before it can call for help – but be mindful that be not a lure to draw us into a trap. Send out your scouts at once!"

Tlaloch rushed to comply, even as the cusp of the ridge north of Xocantal darkened with the forms of many hundreds, perhaps thousands of men marching from the north. Conan stared hard at them, straining to see their numbers and armaments, and was surprised when his men began to whoop with delight!

"Our brothers!" cried Tlaloch. "The mountain folk have come. Look!"

As the men marched down the slope towards Xocantal, Conan could now see they were not dressed as the Jaguar warriors he had slain more than a month before, but in white loinclouts, armed with war clubs, spears or bows, and armoured with light shields – just like Tlaloch's own folk.

"How do we know on whose side they fight?" asked Tihuanco, who had given orders to his men and then rejoined Conan and Tlaloch. "I trust not these mountain folk, who have paid tribute to Xlantlantaca since time out of mind. Our enemy counts these lands as his own territory, and these men as his slaves."

"They come not in arms against us, but to join us in our fight!" replied Tlaloch hotly. "I'll wager my life on it!"

"Let's hope you don't have to pay out that wager," replied Conan gruffly. "I count near twice ten-thousand men on those slopes, but they are, like your folk, more lightly armed than the host of the Quechalnti, and armourless but for thin shields. If it comes to a fight this vale will be drenched in blood. Still, I do not seem them closing ranks into formations."

"We shall see soon enough," said Tihuanco. "It seems they send envoys to us."

Indeed, as the horde of mountain folk marched to the foot of the hillside in no order or rank and file, several of the mountain tribesmen walked past the ruined village towards Conan and his generals, devoid of their weapons as if they were ambassadors. Conan gestured to his own warriors to lower their arms, and then strode toward them.

He was not within five paces of the men when, to his surprise, they pointed at his staff and the Crystal Skull affixed thereon, shock on their dusky faces. Before he could say a word, they sank to their knees, prostrate before him, and chanting words of praise in their own tongue.

"Get off your faces!" cried Conan. "If you want to speak to me, do so as men!"

Eyeing each other nervously, the men uneasily stood to their feet. Then the oldest of them, a heavy-set man with streaks of grey in his black hair, woven with blue and green feathers, said, "Surely you are Conan the Outlander – and the prophecies are true!"

"If you refer to this," cried Conan, gesturing with the staff, "by my own blood and sweat have I earned it – and mayhap with the aid of your gods. Its power is now mine to command."

"We have heard, O Conan," said the man reverently. "The sly king of Chirripi met his end before it – the tale has already spread from shore to shore, and for a thousand leagues!"

"Then our enemies know of it too," replied Conan. "But you have not told me who you are, nor what you seek."

"Forgive me," replied the man with a nod. "I am Xoltanc, king of my people, and these men are other chiefs of the mountain folk. We have come not to fight you, as those men of Quechalnti yonder seem to fear, but to join you in arms against the Feathered Serpent!"

"I am glad to hear of it," replied Conan with a grin, "for while the power of the gods is behind me, I need also more men in the field."

"You have them, my lord," replied Xoltanc with a bow. "A score times ten hundreds of them."

"Then thirty-thousand men at arms now serve our cause," said Conan with satisfaction. "But tell me; what of the enemy? How strong is the force that laid waste to Xocantal – and have they laid waste other villages besides?"

"At least two dozen others," spat Xoltanc, his aged face flushing dark with anger. His companions scowled likewise. "When word of your deeds in slaying his tribute-takers spread north, the wrath of the Feathered Serpent was not long coming. He has sent ten-thousand men at arms to our land – Jaguar, Eagle and Coyote warriors. They have taken thousands of our mountain folk into captivity, mostly women, children and elders, while those men who were not slain fled to the hills, forming larger groups in time for their own protection. All the thousands of captives are destined for slaughter on the black altars of Kukulkan!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," frowned Conan. "And an army weighed-down with captives cannot fight at full strength, for it must both defend itself and guard its prisoners at the same time. They would have been wiser to have slain whomever they came across in a punitive expedition and return to the north."

"That is not their way," replied Xoltanc. "But our folk are not a warlike people, as you may know, though we fight when we must."

"Though no living man of the Quechanlti can recall such bravery on your part," spat Tihuanco.

"And since when have your people struck against Kukulkan, save to protect your own worthless skins?" shot back Xoltanc hotly, while Tihuanaco glared at him.

"Peace!" cried Conan. "We are here to fight our common foe, not each other. I will brook no subversion or infighting amongst my soldiers – and any man who disobeys me in this shall have to face my wrath!"

"We hear and obey, my lord," replied the two men, though they did not cease their angry glances at each other.

"Our folk of Xocantal were the first to recognize Conan as our liberator from the tyranny of Kukulkan," said Tlaloch proudly, "and our trust in him has been proven right!"

"Aye," said Conan shrewdly, "the gods have spoken. Now it is time to answer their call. Behold," he cried in a mighty voice, advancing with the strides of a Hillman towards the mountain folk, "I bear the Crystal Skull of power, fetched by mine own hand from the Crystal Isle of the Western Sea! The Feathered Serpent, avatar of Kukulkan himself shall fly before it to his doom, for I shall slay him upon his own black altar in Xlantlantaca!"

Conan held his stave high above his head, and the assembled armies cheered ecstatically, stamping their feet and clashing their spears and clubs against their shields,

"Hail Conan!" cried the mountain men. "Hail our Liberator!"

The cry was soon taken up by all present, echoing up the length and breadth of the valley, and Conan was pleased to see that in spite of their differences, these very different races of men we willing to unite under his leadership against their common foe. Everything was proceeding beyond his wildest dreams!

"The time to strike is now!" cried the Cimmerian. "Follow the trail of our foes, to victory, and their bloody doom!"

"To Victory!" cried the army of Conan for some minutes. Then, without further word, they fell into a loose order as Conan, with his assembled generals, strode past the village to stand at the head of the vast columns of men, thirty-thousand strong, and lead them up the hillsides on the long march to Xlantlantaca.

* * *

><p>One month later, Conan and his army found themselves far to the north, beyond the lands of the mountain folk akin to the Xocantali, and on the borders of the realm of Xlantlantaca proper. The climate and landscape had changed markedly, for they had left behind the cool, green and well-watered highlands of Tlaloch and Xoltanc's folk for a more forbidding land of hot, bare plateaus, higher, snow-covered mountains, and little rain. Only here and there was the soil of sufficient fertility to stand out as a green ribbon in a sea of beige, about which clay-walled hovels clustered miserably.<p>

In all this time, their numbers had grown as ever more stragglers and survivors of the plundered villages of the mountain folk joined the throng – full forty-thousand strong now. Conan had been concerned about their provisioning, for he knew an army marches on its stomach; but the mountain folk showed remarkable ability to live off the land, even in such large numbers, at least in their own fecund clime. Only the armoured warriors of the Quechalnti subsisted of the rations of dried fish, maize and chillies they had brought with them from their coastal cities.

Conan had put his time on the march to good use, for when they were not otherwise occupied with provisioning or guard duties, he trained his men in battle formations and basic infantry tactics – concepts which, he realized, were utterly alien to them. In spite of their initial resistance to the new ways of fighting that he taught, he was a hard taskmaster, and his men did not dare to show displeasure before the chosen one of their prophecies. In time, his training began to take hold, and while he would not trust his army to hold its own against a seasoned army of distant Hyboria, he at least began to feel more confident that his force would not immediately dissolve into the chaos of melee fighting as soon as it encountered the enemy.

Yet in spite of the fact their foes were weighed down by captives, Conan's force seemed always one step behind them; the occasional body of a captive left in their wake, invariably showing signs of having been slaughtered with great cruelty, showed the means by which the army of Xlantlantaca drove its captives before it at a fevered pace. These bodies had grown more frequent as time passed, and it seemed that surely hundreds of captives had been slain on the march for failure to keep pace with their captors.

The men were grim and silent as they saw the remains of their kinfolk, and Conan began to wonder if they did not harbor doubts toward him – why did the Crystal Skull not awake from its slumber? Why did it not transport them all en masse to the captives and their tormentors, as it had transported him from the sinking Crystal Isle to the safety of the ship some months before? For that marvelous tale had been told by the Quechalnti sailors of the ship to their peers on land, and now was a growing legend amongst the folk of Mayapan.

These questions burned in Conan's brain, and at night when the others slept he would often stare at the accursed talisman in fear and doubt as to its real powers – and its intentions. But there was a curious air of fatalism about these folk that was alien to him – now that their ancient prophecy appeared on the verge of fulfillment, they were content to follow him without question, seemingly willing to accept that such losses as their people suffered were the will of the gods, sacrifices that must be made on the road to the day of doom.

At length, on hot, dry morning Conan and his army found themselves at the edge of a broad, flat plain of sand and salt, as if it were the bottom of a long-vanished lake. It was ringed by steep, bare, snow-covered mountains, dotted here and there by the scrubby plants and grasses that made up such vegetation as was found in these lands. Conan looked with some concern at his men, for while the Quechanlti subsisted on their rations, the mountain folk could barely live off the land in such harsh conditions, and many of them were growing gaunt and spare from hunger and thirst.

But then, turning his eyes back to the plain, Conan saw what he had long sought – a large column of dust which rose up into the air from the flatlands, some miles ahead. It could only mean one thing – Conan's army had at last caught up with the army of Xlantlantaca and its captives!

"Ho, lads!" cried Conan in his deep, booming voice. "We've found them at last! Tonight our enemies shall lie dead, and you shall embrace your wives and bairns!"

"HURRAH!" cried the mountain men, a cry which echoed along the mountain walls far out into the plain, and could not fail to have been heard by the enemy – the Quechalnti remained cool and silent.

Conan suspected that now that the soldiers of Xlantlantaca could no longer evade their pursuers, they would turn and fight on their own terms, rather than wait to be flanked or encircled – it was what he would do in their place. His only fear was that they might put the captives to the sword before they could be rescued – for, were he not bound by the Cimmerian code of honour in matters of women and children, that was also what he would do in their place, and those dogs in their slaughter of helpless captives had long since proven they had no honour or scruples to speak of.

"Form your ranks, and march double time straight forward to the enemy!" cried Conan, giving orders to his generals. Tlaloch, Xoltanc and Tihuanaco give their orders, and moved their men into the battle positions Conan had previously determined – half the lightly armed and armoured mountain folk under Tlaloch on the right flank, half under Xoltanc on the left flank, and the heavily armed and bronze-armoured Quechanlti under Tihuanaco in the centre. Conan likewise took a central position, armed with his bronze stave and a bronze dagger, and wearing a bronze breastplate fashioned for him by the Quechanlti – for though his Cimmerian kinfolk disdained armour as the refuge of cowards, he had learned of its value as early as his youthful stay with the Aesir of Nordheim, and knew that it often determined the advantage in battle.

As the army marched forward on Conan's command, he could see on the horizon that the enemy – he could not distinguish warriors from captives at this distance - was likewise moving into formation. To his surprise, they broke into two groups – a larger group which stayed behind, and a smaller group that surged forward at great speed, and in no great order.

He soon realized that incredibly, the Xlantlantacai were using a great part of their strength to guard the captives - and prevent their escape from the fate of sacrifice - while the rest arrogantly rushed out to meet his army, confident that they would smash their foes in combat as easily as they had pillaged the villages of southern Mayapan in his absence.

"That's right, you fools!" cried Conan savagely, though surely his enemies could not hear him from afar. "Rush in and die like the dogs you are!"

His wish was soon granted, for the enemy, near ten-thousand strong, covered the flatlands of the salt pan at great speed, and soon were upon him – Jaguar warriors like those he had seen some months before at Xocantal, and also Eagle and Coyote warriors, each dressed in fantastic and outlandish costumes bearing the likeness of their totem animals. It was clear they knew nothing of an order of battle – nor of course had the mountain folk or the Quechalnti, before Conan had imposed one on them – but simply fought man-to-man in true barbarian fashion. It was a fighting style with which Conan had been familiar since his earliest youth – and at which he excelled – but it was not, he knew, a style which brought assurances of overwhelming victory. His time in the service of armies from Turan to Aquilonia had taught him better.

"Flank them to the left and right!" he ordered. "Centre troops, press forward!"

The orders were relayed, and the lightly-armed mountain folk quickly moving along the flanks of the surging enemy warriors, nearly enveloping them within minutes, while the heavy infantry of the Quechanlti pressed towards their centre.

The enemy warriors surged forward with their war clubs and spears, screaming bloodcurdling cries, the light of bloodlust in their eyes. One of the tallest Eagle warriors, with a hawk-like nose and a scar across his broad face, went straight for Conan, his white teeth gleaming as he raised a blood-spattered war club edge with sharp obsidian blades. He seemed not to fear the Crystal Skull affixed to Conan's stave, or not to know his power – Conan knew and cared not which, for in an instant he whipped out his stave and smashed the man's head like a ripe gourd, sending blood, brains, bone and teeth spraying over his comrades. Then with his battle cries of "Crom!" and "Manannan mac Lir!" he strode into the fray and was upon them!

The battle raged ferociously for the best part of an hour, but its form soon became clear – the enemy warriors were inflicting great casualties on the enraged mountain folk, but remained badly outnumbered, while the heavily armed Quechanlti pressed into their centre, their bronze shields and weapons clearly showing their tactical superiority over the more primitive stone weapons of the Xlantlantacai.

Then, as the sun arose high in the sky, cruel in its searing heat, the Crystal Skull again woke to life! Glowing softly at first, and then brightly, it soon seemed as if it were a second sun of pure white light, dazing and terrifying the enemy warriors. Conan stood stupefied as a beam of light shot out of it, incinerating the band of Jaguar warriors nearest to him in seconds just as it had done to Hunaco months before! Nothing remained of them but piles of smoking ash smeared across the plain.

That was enough to break the will of the enemy – whose once proud warriors now screamed and gibbered with terror, desperately hacking and battering at their foes so as to escape the trap, and flee for their lives. But the vengeful mountain men were ecstatic, and redoubled their attack against their hated foes, who despite their better weapons and armour lost all fighting spirit and began to drop like flies. The grim-faced Quechanlti likewise continued their methodical butchery, until the whole expanse of the battlefield was stained red with the blood of the Xlantlantacai – a grim, red-handed massacre.

Soon it was all over, and Conan was issuing orders for some of his men to care for the wounded, while the rest re-grouped in battle order to bring the fight to those Xlantlantacai who had stayed behind to guard the captives. Yet this soon proved unnecessary, for Conan's fleet-footed scouts amongst the mountain folk swiftly reported that the remaining Xlantlantacai had abandoned their guard at the first sign of life from the Crystal Skull – which could be seen for miles distant – and were high-tailing it to the north, leaving their captives behind them. The long ordeal of these sad folk was at an end!

Smiling with grim satisfaction, Conan gave orders to the Quechanlti under Tihaunaco to say in guard formation, while the mountain men rushed forward to meet the captives – all order on their part having dissolved as soon as the battle was over and nothing stood between them and their kinfolk. He strode across the battlefield towards them, looking for Tlaloch and Xoltanc – and eager to learn if Huitzil had survived, for in spite of his hard nature he felt some tenderness toward the girl. For her father, Zumal, he had less concern, as he had little time or sympathy for those who would frustrate his plans or defy his will.

In the chaos of weeping relatives seeking each other and joyfully reunited or tearfully sundered families, it took Conan the best part of an hour before he found what he sought – Huitzil, alive and embraced by her brother Tlaloch. He did not see Zumal or many of the elders of Xocantal, and from the tears on Huitzil's face he expected the worst.

When she saw Conan, the girl's crying redoubled, and she almost leapt into his sun-bronzed arms, only to then stare fearfully at the Crystal Skull on its stave, and kneel before his feet.

"Get up, girl!" said Conan gruffly, though not without affection.

"Our village…my father…" the girl cried, soon weeping incoherently.

"This is a black day for the folk of Xocantal," said Tlaloch, his dark eyes burning with anger, "even though it is a happy one for Mayapan – our first victory against our foes. But the people of my village were singled out for especial vengeance by the Jaguar warriors, and it seems my folk number amongst many of the swollen bodies we found on the hard road to this accursed place. My father is dead, and the elders with him. They kept Huitzil alive knowing who she was, just to ensure that Kukulkan could personally sacrifice her on the black altar of Xlantlantaca!"

"A fate she shall never endure," replied Conan, "thanks to the bravery of all your folk – and the power of your gods. And I am sorry for your loss. But this is no place for women and children, nor can we lose the advantage that we have won this day. The walking wounded amongst you men, and all those of Mayapan and the Quechalnti, must take the gravely injured, and the women, elderly and children back with them to their southern homelands. The rest, and the able bodied amongst the captives, must be ready to follow hard on the heels of our fleeing enemies! Vengence is owed to them, and it is not wise to leave them alive to fight another day, and in greater numbers with the aid of their countrymen."

"No my lord," said Huitzil, regaining at last her ability to speak. Her eyes also glimmered fiercely. "At least, send me not away. All this time, how I have yearned for vengeance! The souls of our people cry out for it! I implore you, let me follow you to Xlantlantaca, to watch the Feathered Serpent die by your hand!"

Conan stared hard at the girl for some moments. Then he nodded grimly.

"So be it," he said. "If your brother consents. You have earned the right to witness your revenge, if but from afar."

"I wish not for her to come to further harm," said Tlaloch. "But if she wishes it, then I will not stand in her way."

"Then it's settled," replied Conan. "Relay the orders I have given, and tell the able-bodied survivors to say their farewells. I want our army formed-up and on the march before the sun passes the noontide."

"As you command my lord," said Tlaloch, who set to work. Huitzil gazed at Conan demurely, her mood now strangely calm, and then set her eyes upon the blood-stained Crystal Skull, with a curious smile on her youthful face.


	8. The Battle of the Reeds

_8. The Battle of the Reeds_

Conan's orders had not arrive in time to all the men, and in any case were in vain, for by the time the walking wounded had been separated from the able-bodied, the dead had been buried, and those whom Conan had so commanded had departed for their homeland in the distant south, the sun was setting over the western mountains in a blaze of purple and scarlet.

The able-bodied captives armed themselves with gear from their fallen friends and foes as Conan ordered, but to his chagrin his army was forced to spend the night on the battlefield, while the remnants of the fleeing enemy – perhaps some fifteen-thousand, according to the captives - had the time to make their way far distant. Between the casualties of the battle and the replenishment of their strength from some of the captives, his army had been reduced to perhaps thirty-five thousand men.

Though this dwarfed the fleeing army, the tales told of Xlantlantaca and its vast size convinced him that the Feathered Serpent could raise a far larger army in the field if he wished it – and he had no doubt that his foe was so engaged. The Crystal Skull was once again dormant, and though it had played a central role in the battle, Conan did not trust it to aid him in place of the more certain efforts of his owned trained men. He did hope, however, that its demoralizing effect on the enemy in the greater battle to come would prove as effective as it had in this one.

The march northward began early the next morning, and continued on its weary way, the slender provender of the mountain folk supplemented by that of their vanquished foes. The days passed by, with no further sightings of the enemy beyond those of their retreat, until the scenery began to change again – grasses and bushes became more commonplace amid the rocks and cacti, and forests of slender pines skirted the slopes of the snow-capped mountains.

"We are getting close, now," said Tihuanaco, as he marched alongside Conan and the other generals, Tlaloch and Xoltanc, who had all survived the battle. "Soon we will gaze upon the valley of the Lake of Reeds, and onto the vast island-city of Xlantlantaca itself. So say the maps we brought with us from Chirripi."

"I learned long ago not to trust to maps and mapmakers," said Conan sourly. "If they aren't sure what to fill in on a blank space, they simply make it up. I would rather we have a local guide to aide us, but I see no villages in this land as we did farther south."

"The folk of Xlantlantaca do not reside in villages," replied Tihuanaco. "All live in the city on its islands in the lake, or at least along its shores, and grow or raise their food on plots of fertile land surrounded by their homes. And they live in such fear of their master that none would aid us even if they could."

"They'll soon have more reason to fear me!" replied Conan with a grim smile on his sun-bronzed face.

An hour or two passed, and then Conan and his troops found themselves at the head of a broad pass, flanked by pined-skirted mountain slopes. He was wary, and ordered his scouts to be on the lookout for an ambush, but the slopes were devoid of any foe. Conan was surprised by the laxness of the enemy, for in his foe's place he would have turned the pass into a vice that would crush any army that tried to pass through. Either the Feathered Serpent was arrogant and overconfident, which Conan half-believed to be true, or else he had some other latent strength or power that rendered an ambush unnecessary.

Then, as they reached the summit of the pass, there was a gasp of astonishment from the vanguard of the army as they gazed upon the sight beyond. "Crom!" whispered Conan, while his generals made their oaths in their own tongues.

Before them opened up the Valley of Xlantlantaca. It was like a great bowl, some twenty leagues across, ringed by rocky or pine-clad mountain slopes whose peaks were dusted with snow. A vast, marshy lake filled much of the valley, its waters a curious shade of green as if they were both shallow and full of silt.

However, it was the city of Xlantlantaca itself which provoked such astonishment in Conan and his men. It seemed to float on top of the waters of the lake, though closer scrutiny revealed it was in fact built on many small islands linked together by bridges and causeways. Many of the hundreds of outlying islands were green, clustered with mud-walled houses or huts, and appeared to be full of food crops.

The central islands were larger, and full of black, basalt-walled buildings of cyclopean masonry, carved with strange and terrible designs and statutes which could be dimly seen even from this great distance. Most striking of all was the largest island, at the center of the city, where a massive public square perhaps half a league in breadth was encompassed by a vast, labyrinthine structure to the south, cut full of courtyards and open passageways, and by a vast step-pyramid to the north, well over five-hundred feet in height and breadth. From the flat ceiling of the pyramid, trails of black smoke steamed forth into the heavens, though their sources could not be discerned from so great a distance.

"The Great Pyramid of Kukulkan," said Tihuanaco, spitting on the ground in mention of the name. "And to its south, the palace of our enemy."

"At least fifty times ten-thousand souls must inhabit that city," said Conan, "and yet I see no walls or fortifications of any kind. Only the waters of the lake and the causeways to the shore protect it from invasion."

"If that were true," reply Tihuanaco, "this place would have fallen to the armies of the Quechalnti long ago. A vast army is quartered in the palace, and that is but the least of the city's defences. Powerful indeed is the black sorcery of Kukulkan."

"And yet against the power of the Crystal Skull, it shall avail not," said Huitzil with confidence. "Nor shall the armies of Kukulkan stand before our own." She had stepped away from her assigned place at the rear of the vanguard, and now stood beside Conan and her brother Tlaloch.

"So now this woman is an expert on both sorcery and the military arts?" asked Tihuanaco wryly. "I deem she should return to her place with the rest of the baggage and hold her tongue."

"Hold your own tongue rather than address my sister so!" shot back Tlaloch hotly. Both men fingered their weapons and stared at each other menacingly, while Huitzil's calm face and dark eyes revealed nothing of her own passions.

"Enough talk, all of you!" said Conan in a stern, commanding voice. "I will brook no dissent amongst my generals on the eve of battle. Huitzil, I allowed you to come with us on this quest, but the front lines of our army are no place for you when danger is so near. Get you gone from hence, and take a place with the rearguard."

"As you wish, my lord," she replied, bowing demurely and then departing without further word.

"You mountain and coast folk can save your own petty rivalries for later," continued Conan, turning back to his generals. "There's work to do now, and plenty! I have seen nothing of the enemy since the battle of the salt flats, and like it not. Beyond any doubt our enemy has received a full report of the battle from the survivors of his expeditionary force, and is well prepared for our arrival. This whole place is too calm, too quiet, too open. I see not a man or beast in the fields or on the streets, and my hawk eyes could spot them even at this distance. Everything here speaks of a trap – I feel it in my bones. So quiet your squabbling and keep your focus where it belongs!"

"As you command, my lord," replied the generals. Tlaloch looked abashed, though Tihuanaco remained as inscrutable as ever.

"Now, these are my commands," said Conan. "Our vanguard consists of ten-thousand light infantry and scouts of the mountain folk, and shall be under the command of Tlaloch. The main body of the infantry shall consist of the ten-thousand Quechalnti under the command of Tihuanaco, and two divisions of mountain folk to guard its flanks, five-thousand men to a flank. They shall be under Tihuanaco's command and obey all his orders as they would mine, until I order otherwise." He stared warningly at Tlaloch and Xoltanc, who said nothing in reply.

"The five-thousand mountain folk of the rearguard shall be under the command of Xoltanc." Xoltanc had remained quiet during the exchange between Tlaloch and Tihuanaco, but now nodded his graying head in assent.

"I shall accompany the vanguard," continued Conan, "and we shall advance into the plains below at a fast pace, on high alert. The main guard will follow us at a slower pace, and be prepared to retreat on my command at a moment's notice, should the vanguard spring the trap. The rear guard shall stay here and hold the pass until it receives further orders from me. If we must retreat and regroup, then the rearguard's task will be vital, for without it our escape route could be cut off and our army trapped in this accursed vale. But should things go well in the first stroke of battle, I shall call up the rearguard to deliver the final blow to the enemy."

"We hear and obey, my lord," said Tlaloch, Tihuanaco and Xoltanc in unison.

"Then issue your orders, and let us proceed in haste," said Conan. "Already the noon-hour approaches, and every minute we delay here lessens our chances of camping in the square of Xlantlantaca tonight!"

Some hours later, in the early afternoon, Conan, Tlaloch and the vanguard of the army strode along a dusty road in the open flatlands that bordered the marshy shore of the lake, and led to a causeway some leagues distant which led straight into the heart of the enemy's city.

Conan's heart was troubled, for the closer they drew near to the entry to the causeway, the more unnatural the silence and emptiness of the land about became. How could the enemy allow Conan's vanguard to approach so near to the entryway into their city, when by any standard the only hope for preventing its sack and investment was to defeat Conan's force on the mainland, before the causeway could be taken?

The men, he sensed, were alert and uneasy too – though doubtless not least due to their marching in arms so close to the citadel of the dreaded enemy, whose very name had for aeons been a byword for fear. Beyond counting were the folk of the mountains who had died screaming on the black altars of Kukulkan, their living hearts ripped from their chests by cruel obsidian blades, on the summit of the dark pyramid-temple that glowered over them from its island fastness.

A tingle ran up Conan's spine as the sun seemed to darken for an instant, as if a shadow had passed over it. Conan stared hard at the lakeshore and the reeds, for now it seemed a mist was beginning to rise up from the marshes – in broad daylight and in the afternoon! It was unnatural, and for all that he held the Crystal Skull in his grasp, Conan began to fear the supernatural powers that might be wielded by his foe.

A murmuring from the men soon revealed that they also had seen the unnatural mist, which rose higher and higher, thickening until the island-city could no longer be seen through its murky depths. Instinctively, Conan knew the moment for action was at hand.

"Pull back from the shore!" he bellowed. "Form ranks inland, facing towards the lake! On the double!"

The men scrambled to follow Conan's orders, though the confusion they soon fell into revealed the paucity of training they had received on the march northward. A Hyborian army, such as that of proud Aquilonia, would have executed such a complex maneuver quickly and efficiently, putting years of training into practice on the spot. Conan's force, save for the hard core of the Quechanlti, despite his best efforts was still little more than a disorganized mob, as well he knew.

"On the double, damn you!" shouted Conan, gesturing wildly with his staff. "Your flanks are all exposed to the right! Form up!" Conan continued to shout and curse at his struggling men, while still finding time to dispatch messengers to the main body of his army a league's length distant to halt their march at once and wait for further orders.

The mist was a thick, glimmering, almost living thing now, and slowly and insidiously – yet too quickly for Conan's liking – it crept from the marshes inland towards the reedy shore.

"Do you think…" asked Tlaloch, standing next to Conan, but his question was never finished. A spear crashed through the chest of the man standing next to him, who dropped like a broken doll.

"We're under attack!"cried Tlaloch. "Clubs and spears at the ready!"

"It came from the mist!" cried Conan. "Stop your floundering, men, and get ready to stand and fight!"

A hail of spears sailed out of the mist now, downing scores of men. Some foolishly threw their own spears back into the mist, though they could see no targets, while others stolidly stood their ground, spears and war clubs at the ready.

"How could they have got boats over the lake so quickly?" asked Tlaloch.

"No time for words now!" replied Conan. "Get ready!"

Another hail of spears from the mist, more skewered bodies dropped to the ground – and then the enemy was upon them!

Hundreds of jaguar and eagle warriors – or was it thousands? – surged out of the reeds on onto the shore, wielding their war-clubs and spears, and crying out in shrill ululations for vengeance and the blood of their enemies. They crashed into the open flanks of the mountain men in a tidal wave of ruin, trampling and scattering their foes before them mercilessly.

"Crom! They came not in boats, but walked _over_ the water through the mist!" cried Conan – in no other fashion could so many enemies have crossed the broad waters of the lake so quickly!

"Tlaloch!" cried Conan. "The advance guard must fall back at once to our main body. Dispatch messengers to Tihuanaco, and tell him to hold the line and wait for our arrival. Hurry! Meanwhile, I'll see to these dogs myself."

"I hear, and obey," shouted Tlaloch over the din of combat, as he then moved swiftly to further Conan's orders. Conan then strode toward his enemies, the men of his own army dashing out of his path as he raised his staff menacingly. A broad grin split his sun-bronzed face as he closed in on his nearest foe, a tall jaguar warrior with a heavily scarred face, armed with a blood-spattered obsidian club.

"You!" cried the jaguar warrior, as if he somehow knew Conan by sight – or reputation. "You have led this rabble to its doom, fool! I'll carve out…"

"Die!" screamed Conan, his staff, swifter than lightening, smashing the man's skull like a gourd in a spray of blood and bone.

"Crom and Mannannan mac Lir!" he cried, and he plunged into the surging mass of his enemies, striking at them again and again in a dizzying whirl, reaping the lives of his enemies with each cruel blow.

Even as Conan was surrounded by a shrieking mob of his foes, all intent of claiming the honour of striking him down, Tlaloch gave his orders, and the mountain men moved swiftly to disengage from their enemies and fall back on the main guard of their army. Some had misgivings about leaving their lord thus alone, but to them Tlaloch said, "Do you doubt the power of the Crystal Skull, or the might of your lord Conan? Do as you are bid!" The remnant of the advance guard was soon retreating in near disarray to the flanks of the main guard, while Conan stood alone in a mass of his enemies, surrounded by an ever-growing pile of the bodies of his slain foes.

Nor was all well with the main guard of the army, for even as the first outliers of the advance guard had fallen back as ordered, the main guard found their own flanks assailed by an ever larger force of their enemies, who emerged unnaturally from the mist over the lake just as had their comrades before.

Tlaloch ran swiftly up to Tihuanaco, who was bellowing orders to his men to turn about in a sweeping arc to their left to face the enemy and avoid being flanked on the right, as had happened to the advance guard.

"Conan stands alone!" Tlaloch cried. "He covered our retreat, but we must help him!"

"The gods must help him," replied Tihuanaco, "and they have so far. We must fight where we stand!"

Yet the army soon fell back before the onslaught of its foes. The mountain folk, who had fought so bravely in the battle of the salt flats, fared poorly here, and seemed overwhelmed by fear of their enemies so close the black heart of their realm. Their fighting was now nothing but a series of brutal melees, in which they lost all order and purpose and steadily gave ground as their foes pressed forward relentlessly from the shores of the lake.

The Quechalnti fared better, both due to their contempt for the men of Xlantalntaca and their bronze armour and weapons. On Tihuanaco's orders, they formed into defensive square formations, which we soon besieged on all sides by thousands of bloodthirsty eagle and jaguar warriors – the divisions of mountain folk whose task had been to screen their flanks had now dissolved entirely into a bloody rout. Of Conan they could see no sign.

For hours the battle raged, the tide of combat ebbing and flowing, but always pushing ever harder against those who had sought to challenge the might of Kukulkan. Thousands of broken and shattered bodies littered the battlefield, their gut-heaving stench reeking to the heavens, as the waters of the lake were stained red with the blood of the slain. The sun began to sink into the west, turning the sky a deep scarlet as dark as that of the lake, as if the day of the Last Battle had arrived, and all things were devoured in a holocaust of flame and red ruin.

Even the Quechanlti despaired now – for they believed Conan dead, and feared the Crystal Skull and the dark gods who commanded its power had abandoned them at the hour of truth.

"We must summon the rear guard – they alone can save us now!" cried Tlaloch – one of the few mountain folk who yet drew breath on the battlefield.

"No!" replied Tihuanaco, shaking his sweat-covered brow fervently. "The rear guard must hold their ground in the pass, or we shall face being cut off from escape. Then our ruin would be complete. We must hold our ground till nightfall, then break out and retreat under cover of darkness."

"Should we last so long," replied Tlaloch wearily. "If only Conan had lived! Without him, and the power of the Crystal Skull, our cause is doomed. The enemy shall lay all our lands waste, from Mayapan to the farthest shores of Quechaloc!"

"The gods have played us false," spat Tihuanaco sourly. "All my life I had faith in them, yet now I see the truth; to them we are but rag dolls, to be toyed with for their amusement for a time, and then disposed of when they tire of us. But enough talk – we must rally the men to hold on till nightfall. Already the sun hovers on the rim of the mountains to the west!"

"Stand and fight, men," cried Tihuanaco. "We must hold out till nightfall – the dark shall bring us salvation!"

No sooner had he spoken then a brilliant white light shone out from the mist over the lake, and all men standing on the plain of ruin turned and stared at it in fear and wonder…


	9. The Feathered Serpent

_9. The Feathered Serpent_

As soon as Conan had dispatched Tlaloch with his orders, he turned his attention to the braying mob of his foes. Laughing savagely, the blood born of a thousand generations of barbarism singing through his veins, he tore into the mob of his enemies with his staff, spraying blood and shards of bone with every stroke and mowing down his enemies like grain before the scythe.

Time stood still as Conan found himself engulfed by the heaped bodies of his victims. Above the din of the heart of the battle, now some miles distant, he heard a murmuring amongst the force of hundreds of foes that surrounded him. They all pulled back, staring at him with strange expectancy.

"Have you lost your courage, dogs?" laughed Conan. "Rush in and die like the rest!"

"It is your day to die, Son of Crom!" replied a deep, booming voice from behind him.

Startled, Conan turned about, and saw the mass of his enemies stand aside before a towering giant. This man was huge, and covered from head to toe in armour of wedges of obsidian and jade, woven together into mesh-mail. He bore in his gloved hands a huge club, spiked with obsidian blades, and a shield covered in bright feathers, worked into strange, abstract designs which to Conan's eye bore no meaning. The man's face was entirely covered by a helmet carved of jade, masking even the eyes behind slivers of dark glass. The helm itself was strangely carved, as if it were meant to be the head of a dragon. To Conan there was something strangely familiar about the design, and yet he could not place it.

"So!", replied Conan with a deep laugh, as he rested his weight on his staff. "The Feathered Serpent has emerged at last from his den. Think you that I shall bow before you as do these scum?" He gestured contemptuously at the warriors of Xlantalntaca, both living and dead.

"I am not the Feathered Serpent, but his Champion," replied the giant.

"Then he is a coward who sends others to fight where he dares not!" laughed Conan, spitting on the ground before the feet of his foe, who now stood but a few paces from him. "I shall show him your severed head before I collect his!"

"No," replied the giant, shaking his head. "I shall break your spine like a cord of rotten hemp, and then drag you to the Black Altar of Kukulkan. You shall die screaming under the knife by my own hand, and your soul shall writhe in torment in the lowest depths of the Nine Outer Hells of Darkness."

"Enough talk, boastful fool!" cried Conan, as with a lightning fast move he whipped his staff around, aiming the blood-stained weight of the Crystal Skull at his foe's armoured head.

The Skull connected at its target with a sickening crack, and with a force that would have dropped any other man like an ox under the butcher's mallet. But the Champion merely staggered back a pace, grunting harshly, before striking back with his own club in a ferocious blow that Conan barely managed to parry in time, and required every ounce of his strength to avoid being knocked off his feet!

"Crom!" exclaimed Conan, frowning now, and then the battle began in earnest. Again and again the two foes struck at each other, staff against club, each of the two giants staggering under the weight of the other's blows as the grim men of Xlantalntaca watched silently, like shadows from a forgotten age.

The Crystal Skull had remained dormant all this while, and Conan, who had never trusted the ensorcelled bauble from the outset, began to fear that it had failed him just when he needed its power most; for his legs had begun to tremble under the strain of combat, as they never would have when he was younger, and his foe seemed animated by almost supernatural strength and endurance beyond measure.

Realizing the combat could not long endure thus, and that he must force the decision, Conan risked all on an overhead swing of his staff that left his whole body exposed. The Champion swung his club at Conan's exposed flank in a move that would have brought swift death to Conan had it connected.

And yet, Conan's foe was just an instant too slow – by a grim twist of fate, weighed down by the bulk of his protective armour. Conan's staff crashed down squarely on the top of the Champion's helm, with every fibre of the Cimmerian's strength behind the blow.

There was a nauseating squelching sound, as if the man's spine had been crushed under the colossal force of the impact; the war club dropped from the Champion's suddenly rigid hands, as he swayed on his feet for a few moments. Then he fell swiftly and suddenly flat on his back, the ground shaking under the impact of his ponderous weight. A gurgling sigh came from behind the mask, and then the giant's body trembled slightly as his soul was wrenched from his massive form.

Conan stood still for some seconds, his limbs trembling and chest heaving under the exertion of his ordeal. "Crom!" he whispered under his breath, "what a curse it is to grow old!" Then he steadied himself, and cautiously approached his fallen foe, determined to ensure that he was truly dead. To his surprise, the men of Xlantalntaca betrayed no reaction, but merely regarded him in grim silence – or was it expectation?

Carefully reaching downward, he pulled off his foe's helm with one hand, and then staggered backward, his blood running cold with shock.

"Sigurd the Vanir!" he cried. "Crom and Ymir, what monstrous sorcery is this?"

And yet there was no sorcery to be seen – plain as day, the unmistakable form of his former comrade lay sprawled in the dust at his feet, his empty blue eyes staring glassily into infinity – for he was quite dead, much to Conan's regret. Conan did not believe for an instant that his old comrade, with whom he had fought so many battles back to back against living walls of foes, would have willingly turned on him in treachery.

"You have passed our lord's first test," said one of the men of Xlantalntaca, an Eagle warrior whose plumes of especial magnificence marked him as a captain of many men. "Now you must past the second."

"What test?" snarled Conan, his blood boiling now, red hot with anger. "Think you this is a game, you miserable cur?"

The man smiled cryptically, and then pointed at the Crystal Skull, which had begun to glow ominously.

"You shall learn soon enough," replied the captain. "We men of Xlantalntaca have our own wisdom and our own prophecies, and your place in them grows more clear to us now."

Conan could not reply, for as the Skull glowed ever more brightly, he felt his entire body frozen suddenly by a will greater than his own, as the living world about his eyes began to fade from view. All sound faded, and a grey mist obscured his vision.

Then, slowly he began to perceive a change in his surroundings. He was standing in a vast chamber carved out of closely-fitted blocks of ebon stone, supported by squat, heavy pillars carved in fantastic and savage designs. Torches adorned the pillars, casting a flickering light in the chamber which yet failed to relieve the overwhelming sense of gloom and despair. The chamber seemed vast, and Conan could not see or sense its walls or boundaries, veiled as they were in everlasting shadow.

A broad, high throne, carved out of solid stone, and flanked by stone braziers whose coals glowed dully red, was dimly visible some scores of paces ahead of Conan's field of vision. A large, shapeless figure was seated upon it, veiled in shadow so deep and dark it seemed almost a living thing.

Conan's sight and hearing were fully restored now, and he realized that the Crystal Skull was still glowing brightly, casting its own illumination into the gloom. His blood raced through his veins, and the hairs on the nape of his neck stood on end – not only at the unnatural manner in which he had arrived in this grim chamber of shadows, but even more so at the overwhelming sense of menace that pervaded the air. The aura of pure evil radiating from the dark being on the throne was almost palpable, and all the superstitious fears of Conan's people began whispering into his ears. He silently cursed the day he decided to explore the unknown lands of Mayapan, rather than sail from Antillia to the distant Hyborian shore.

"Welcome, Conan of Cimmeria," said the figure on the throne, in a deep, cold, harsh voice that echoed across the room, and drove slivers of ice into Conan's flesh. "We meet again. I have long awaited this moment."

"We have never met, Kukulkan – or Feathered Serpent, or whatever name is known to you," replied Conan, mustering every fibre of his will to retain his courage, and focus on his purpose. "Arise from yon throne, and fight me as did poor Sigurd! I know not how you overthrew his mind, but to avenge his blood alone I would not stop till you lie dead, even if I did not desire your throne for myself!"

The dark figure then laughed, a deep, cold, merciless intonation that assailed Conan's ears, and struck fear into his very marrow – yes, even Conan of Cimmmeria knew fear in that dark place, such as he had never known it in all his long years!

"Young fool," replied the dark one, his voice now mocking and cynical, "your memory is feeble, as is that of all mortals. Kukulkan and Quetzalcoatal are amongst the many names I have borne. In this and other times and places have we met before – in Old Zimbabwae did I last have you within my coils, amongst the black-skinned ones who know me as Damballah."

Conan's jaw dropped in horror, as the dark figure arose from its throne and surged towards him – revealing itself to be a vast, midnight black serpent, a score of paces in length, it eyes open now and glowing scarlet red, the narrow slitted pupils ebon and soulless.

"Set the Accursed!" hissed Conan under his breath…


	10. The Skull and the Serpent

_10. The Skull and the Serpent _

"Think not I have come unarmed against you, foul one!" cried Conan, gesturing with his staff – the Crystal Skull glowed more brightly than ever. "I know well that mortal weapons are of no use against you – and yet I bear a talisman of great power. Mayhap greater than yours! Think you to chance your power against that which I bear?"

"The Crystal Skull," replied Conan's nemesis, his diamond-shaped head reared up now above his coils some ten feet above the floor, his scarlet eyes flashing brightly. "Long have I sought this mighty talisman, idol of the worshippers of Kuthlan, the dreaming god. Now you have brought it into my abode, and for that I thank you. Its power shall serve me well!"

"I did not risk life and limb to serve your ends!" spat Conan, unsure now why his hideous foe did not at once attack and seek to claim his treasure. "I have brought it here to claim a throne, and the Kingship of the unknown lands of the West."

"I have ever ruled the land mortals call Mayapan," replied Set, "for age after age. It is my own domain in your wretched world – and one mortal after another has reigned in my stead as my Champion. Your friend Sigurd of Vanaheim was the latest – he strode to Xlantalntaca from the eastern shore some months hence when his ship was wrecked, and slew his predecessor on the steps of my Black Temple, claiming the Kingship for himself. All with my consent – for the power of the ages surges through my being, and I could have crushed him like a gnat had it pleased me. Then my own power fueled his, and he became mine in body and soul, as have all the Kings of Xlantalntaca before him who wore the mask of the Feathered Serpent!"

Set hissed sibilantly. "But he was a mere placeholder, a pawn. And now you have arrived, and proved the stronger in mind and body, to take his place and rule in my stead."

"What say you?" cried Conan, who could not believe his ears.

"You wish the Throne of Xlantalntaca?" replied Set evenly. "Then take it. But it is mine to give, or to take away, and you shall pay my price for it."

"And what price is that?" replied Conan, though in his bones he knew the answer before it was offered.

"A mere bauble," quoth Set. "The Crystal Skull you bear. Give it to me, of your own free will, and the Kingship of Xlantalntaca shall be yours. I shall even grant a boon, and leave you possession of your own body and soul, and your own free will – though much good shall they do you in the brief mortal years that are left to you! Still, you shall have your own thoughts, and your own dreams, and not merely act as my pawn, overthrown and enslaved in mind – as did Sigurd, and all who came before him."

"Think you I trust you, the father of lies?" spat Conan.

"If you did, you would be an even greater fool than I imagined," replied Set. "But in this I cannot lie; for a deeper Power lies behind all, and in this matter I am bound by the nature and rhythms of the Cosmos itself."

"And what use have you for this mere bauble, as you call it?" asked Conan darkly. "I am no fool as you claim – I know its power is great, and great evil could you do with it. And you would have taken it for yourself already, if you could."

"What use have you for the Throne of Xlantalntaca?" retorted Set mockingly. "A Throne you have possessed before, and of a higher and mightier realm – yet what have you to show for it?"

Conan brooded in silence, as the fate of worlds rested once again on his broad shoulders. He knew there was no combating the power of Set, save by sorcerous means – indeed, he knew not even where he was, or how he had come to this grim abode, whether by Set's power or that of the Crystal Skull. That the mercurial talisman still shone brightly amid the darkness in no way comforted him – though perhaps, he mused, its power was all that protected his own mortal life from being at once snuffed out by this creature of the outer darkness known to men as Set – or Kukulkan.

He realized his dilemma was thus; even could he somehow return to the waking lands of Mayapan, he could trust neither Set to keep his word if he made the bargain, nor the Crystal Skull to serve his will if he did not. And was not the Crystal Skull merely a tool of this other demon, Kuthlan? Might it not turn its power against Conan himself, if he failed to serve its unknown ends?

It seemed to Conan that he was a pawn on the gameboard of the gods, and he liked it not. All his life he had sought above all to serve his own will alone, and not to be ensnared in the schemes of others, high or low in estate, as were lesser men.

Conan then found wisdom enough to realize he _lacked _the wisdom to make this choice. What he needed now was to buy time – and find some wise man or men of Mayapan who knew more of such esoteric matters than did he.

"I have won my own kingdom by my own hand before," quoth Conan, "and may do so again – for neither this nor any other realm of men is yours to give, or to take away."

"So that is your answer?" hissed Set, his scarlet eyes narrowing imperceptibly. The light from the torches dimmed, and the very air trembled with the aura of his menace.

"Your bargain is a hard one," replied Conan, "for many easy victories have I won by the power of the Crystal Skull, that without it would have come harder. Yet victory I would have had none the less. This thing holds no value to me, save the power its holds over the hearts and minds of the folk of Mayapan, whom I would have as my subjects. Now that I have slain your Champion – and think not I will requit you of the blood of Sigurd, which lies upon your own accursed head – I have no need for this thing that is known to me, for my followers shall serve me now regardless."

"Then you admit you have no need for it!" replied Set. "Accept then my bargain, and we shall each have what we desire!"

"I said I have no need of it that I know of," replied Conan with a grim smile. "Yet I am no sage or sorcerer. Who knows what power this Crystal Skull could bring to me in time? Perhaps I could become a god myself, one greater in power even than you!"

Set hissed with rage and menace, as the chamber was plunged entirely into darkness – save for the light cast by the Crystal Skull. Conan no longer even sensed he stood on solid ground at all, for he seemed to have passed beyond all space and time, into the Outer Dark that lies beyond all.

"A god yourself!" cried Set. "Fool! Worm! Mortal filth! I offer you the Throne of Xlantalntaca in exchange only for this token, and you dare compare yourself to me, and seek to exceed me in power? Your puny world shall be reduced to dust and ash in its dying Sun, and the memory of your race be forgotten to the Cosmos forever, and still I shall endure beyond the end of time!"

Set lapsed into some foul tongue which Conan could not understand, but which chilled him to the bone – only by the grip of his own iron will did he retain his focus and his sanity.

Then Set continued:

"Hear me, mortal! The Crystal Skull may protect you from my wrath – for now! – but it has no power over me in this place, any more than I have power over it, and you shall never leave my dark realm without my assent! Forever shall your starved carcass clutch at this bauble in my throne room, a threat to me no more, if you accept not my terms!"

"And trust not to its power in the waking world," Set continued, "for it is but the remnant of an ancient priest-king of fallen Lemuria, who long ago turned to the forbidden worship of the dead and dreaming god Kuthlan, who is no friend to mortals any more than am I. He had slain the rightful king of his own folk, and ruled through terror in his stead, using the power of Kuthlan to cement his rule."

"But he was a fool, as are all mortals! Kuthlan used him merely as a pawn, for after long aeons of imprisonment in his watery tomb, while the cycles of the ages rolled drearily past, the circle was nearly complete, and the stars were at last right for him to rise again!"

"Kuthlan possessed this Lemurian's mortal frame, and used it to conduct the rituals that would secure his own release from sunked R'lyeh, where he was imprisoned by the Elder Gods before the first lowly worm was ever spawned from the muck of your primal Earth. Once released, he would unleash the Chaos of the Outer Darkness upon your universe, and raven in delight as all fell into the abyss forever!"

"This Lemurian demigod then realized he had been betrayed by his master – and for all that he was a fool, he was not without will and power of his own. He twisted and perverted the course of the ancient words and rituals, so that the release of Kuthlan was _postponed_ indefinitely – for the power to effectuate it now lay within the priest himself, and through his own dark power and will he turned himself and his palace into a realm of pure crystal, incorruptible and enduring for age upon age – thereby arresting forever the course of Kuthlan's spell, save in the hands of one who knew how to complete it."

"Now the power of Kuthlan is focused through this Crystal Skull as if it were a prism, though he cannot use it to complete the spell of his unleashing without external aid. By its nature it cannot harm the one who wields it – yet that makes it no less a menace to you. Woe unto you, O Conan, should it ever fall through guile or treachery into the hands of another man, of one who serves the cult of Kuthlan and knows how to use the power of the Skull, against its own will, to release its dark master from the abyss!"

"Then why should I let it fall into your hands?" asked Conan somberly. "If indeed you have any."

"In my hands," hissed Set, "so to speak, the menace and power of this evil talisman shall forever be removed – for I shall contain its dark power with my own. Then the menace of Kuthlan shall be vanquished forever, and never until the end of time shall he be freed from his watery tomb!"

"And why should you wish to help mortals so?" scoffed Conan.

"I care not for the fate of mortals," replied Set evenly. "They mean naught to me. It is to preserve myself from the Wrath of Kuthlan, which might be unleashed by one who knows how to complete the spell perverted by the Lemurian priest, which is my sole concern. Nor can I use it for any evil against men – I cannot turn my enemy's power in my own favour!"

"Nor can I take this thing myself from its wielder against his will – as rightly you have guessed," continued Set. "The Crown of Mayapan and rule over its folk I offer to you gladly in exchange for the Crystal Skull, whose power would else in time betray you just as Kuthlan betrayed its former owner!"

"Hear now my bargain and accept it," concluded Set, "or else starve and rot in these dark halls forever! The choice is yours."

Conan again brooded in silence. Strangely, the words of Set bore to him the ring of truth, at least as far as they went – for as Set himself had admitted, he was not such a fool as to trust a demon of the outer dark.

Conan had never trusted the Crystal Skull itself from the beginning, nor its mercurial power, and for all that they served him now he trusted less the cryptical men of Quechanlti, who had been so eager for Conan to find the Skull, and unleash its power against the Feathered Serpent – which, it appeared, meant against Set himself. Were they but pawns of Kuthlan, in an ancient feud between these two monstrous beings of an elder world?

If so, it would explain a great deal, mused Conan. But if what Set had said were true, and he could not use the power of the Crystal Skull for himself, then why did he so eagerly long to take the skull into his own possession, granted by Conan's own free will, rather than simply keep the Skull harmlessly imprisoned within his dark domain while Conan's starved corpse clutched at it forever?

There was more to all this than met the eye – of that, Conan was sure. Once again, his instincts told him to delay, and make no bargain with this foul creature that he could not break to his own advantage – and perhaps that of all men.

"I have heard your offered bargain," said Conan at length. "Now you will hear mine. You shall return me from this place to the shores of Lake Xlantalntaca, at the head of my own army. There, I shall enter the gates of Xlantalntaca, and rule as King for a dozen years – a short span of time to you, if your own span of years is as you claim. During that time, I shall retain the Crystal Skull in my own possession – as a gesture of your good faith. When that time has elapsed, I shall relinquish it, and you may claim it for your own."

Set hissed sibilantly, silent for some moments. Then, he replied:

"And how do I know you shall not betray me, and allow another mortal of the thrice-accursed race of the Quechanlti to raise its power against me, and in favour of Kuthlan?"

"I swear by Crom and by Ymir," replied Conan, "I shall give the Crystal Skull to no other mortal man, nor allow any other mortal man to use its power."

"Nor any mortal woman!" quoth Set.

"Agreed," replied Conan.

"You might as well swear by fairy tales as by Crom and Ymir," mocked Set, "but so be it. I accept your bargain, to which we both shall be bound in darkness until the end of time!"

There was a blinding flash of light, and utter silence – for a moment. Then the white light faded and focused into the clear light of the setting Sun, and the hue and cry of battle filled Conan's ears.

All at once, as if awoken from a stupor, Conan took stock of his situation – he stood now on the edge of the reedy lakeshore of Xlantalntaca, amid a tightly knit body of the Quechalnti, and some handfuls of the mountain folk of Mayapan – who, by all appearances, had suffered a series of hammer blows all day, and now were on their last legs, hard pressed by their ruthless foe.

The cries and shrieks of battle now turned to those of shock and wonder – for Conan now stood at the heart of his army, or what remained of it, bearing the Crystal Skull on its brazen staff, and arrayed not in the war gear of the Quechanlti, but in a magnificent costume of jade, gold, and feathers of brilliant scarlet, azure and verdure. His square-cut black mane was likewise hidden now beneath a striking jade headdress in the mode of Xlantalntaca, which bore the shape of a serpent's jaws, whose open mouth framed his square-jawed face, and was bedecked by a headdress of still more brilliant feathers laced with beads of gold.

"It is Conan!" cried the men of Quechanlti and Mayapan. "Conan has returned to us! We are saved by the power of the Crystal Skull!"

"Nay, it is Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent!" cried the men of Xlantalntaca. "Our ruler has returned to us – he was, and was not, and now is again!"

"Silence!" boomed Conan, in a stentorian voice that echoed across the battlefield. A hush descended on the grappling mass of men, as they turned from their private, desperate struggles towards his commanding presence.

"You are both correct," he continued. "I am the Feathered Serpent of Xlantalntaca, _and_ I am Conan, Marshall of the Armies of Mayapan and Quechaloc. The rule of all these lands and all men within them belongs to me now!"

There was dead silence for some moments, as the men on both sides struggled to understand what they had heard. Then all at once there was a clamour, as each man exclaimed his own view of Conan's words; some in belief, others in doubt.

"It is as prophesied!" cried Tlaloc. "The Crystal Skull has overthrown the rule of the Feathered Serpent of old – now Conan rules in his place, through its own power! Never again need we folk of Mayapan fear the lord of Xlantalntaca!"

"Nay, Conan's words do not ring true," replied Tihuanaco with a scowl. "The Crystal Skull has ever been the enemy of the Feathered Serpent. Why would it slay the King of Xlantalntaca only to appoint Conan in his stead, and even wearing his ceremonial garb?"

"What knowledge have you of such priestly mummery?" scoffed Tlaloc, tasting for the first time the honeyed draught of success and ambition. "Conan has slain our enemy, and taken his throne for himself – as he has said he would all along! And the dogs of Xlantalntaca seem ready to drop their arms and obey him – for they recognize him also as _their_ King. Why then continue to argue or fight? We should end this battle now, all bowing to Conan as our lord, and then under his sway we generals shall rule as his viceroys the vast lands of Xlantalntaca, Mayapan and Quechaloc. The victory is already ours!"

The men of Mayapan nearby cried in assent to Tlaloc's words, while those of Xlantalntaca remained silent – yet did not appear to dissent. Only Tihuanaco and his Quechanlti followers remained aggrieved.

"Conan!" cried Tihuanaco. "You have fooled the folk of Mayapan – and perhaps even the dogs of Xlantalntaca – but you do not fool me or my folk! The Crystal Skull, servant of Kuthlan, is prophesied to destroy Kukulkan and his minions – not to install one puppet in place of another! My folk have not fought and died for you to reach this end!"

The men of Quechaloc murmered in assent, and backed away in a body from the folk of the other two nations, well aware how badly outnumbered they were if both turned on them, with their only escape route, the pass southward, also held against them by their foes.

Conan glared menacingly at Tihuanaco. He had never liked the folk of Quechaloc, and although Tihuanaco himself had earned Conan's grudging respect on the long march northward, all Conan's distrust of these strange folk surged up within him, goaded by the memory of Tihuanaco's treacherous former king – and, perhaps, by fear that Tihuanaco had hit too close to the mark?

"Guard your tongue with care!" replied Conan grimly, gesturing toward Tihuanaco with his staff. "Who are you to doubt the power of the Crystal Skull? I have used its power to slay my foe – think not I will hesitate to turn its power against you and your minions, if you dare to betray me!"

"It is you who have betrayed us!" replied Tihuanaco hotly. "We should never have allowed the Crystal Skull to fall into the hands of an outlander even for a moment, no matter what our fool of a king might have counseled – may Kuthalan devour his wretched soul!"

"Peace!" cried a man of Xlantalntaca – the same captain who had spoken to Conan some hours before, when he had been secreted for a time beyond the lands of mortal men. "I am Xipe, a high general amongst our most elite warriors – yet also am I wise in the ways of priestcraft and prophecy. You folk of Quechanlti know less of these matters than you believe. Long have you been enslaved by the lies of Kuthlan! If this Crystal Skull of yours served blindly the ends of your dreaming god as you claim, mayhap what you say would be true, and our throne would lie empty. Yet it does not so – and its power and purpose are beyond your ken!"

"Decide then," continued Xipe, "whether you wish to live or die this day. We men of Xlantalntaca are prepared to serve under Conan as our King. And so, it seems, are the men of Mayapan. Will you men of Quechaloc do so now, so that our three realms are united as one? Or shall I order my warriors – with our liege's permission, of course – to strike you down where you stand? Choose quickly!"

"Heed his words, Tihuanaco!" replied Conan. "For I shall not tolerate your insubordination any longer."

Tihuanaco scowled darkly, and then for some minutes spoke in urgent whispers with his chief lieutenants in his own strange tongue. Then, without acknowledging Xipe, he turned to Conan and said:

"Mayhap I have spoken rashly, O Conan. Though our fears were not ill-founded, it is not for us as worshippers of Kuthlan to doubt the power of the Crystal Skull. So as it wills, we shall do – even though its will seems strange to us."

"It is settled then," cried Tlaloc, his youthful face beaming. "The battle is over, and Conan is King of all three of our nations! All hail King Conan!"

"Hail King Conan!" cried the surviving men of Mayapan, who then began to cheer uproariously, as the prospect of bitter death in battle dissolved before their eyes into the reality of a glorious victory beyond their dreams.

"All hail Conan, the Feathered Serpent, King of the Three Realms!" cried Xipe and the vast army of Xlantalntaca.

"Hail to the King!" proclaimed Tihuanaco – though his voice did not echo with enthusiasm. His formula was duly taken up by the somber men of Quechaloc, in a grim salute to Conan.

"The days of bloodshed and sacrifice amongst your three peoples are over!" boomed Conan, his sun-bronzed face now split by a broad grin. "Under my rule, the Three Kingdoms of these sunset lands shall be united as one for a thousand years!"

Cheers and celebrations then echoed across the valley, as Conan gave orders to all his generals, old and new – Tlaloc, Tihuanaco and Xipe – to form ranks and follow his lead as they marched into his new capital city of Xlantalntaca, while dispatching messengers to Xoltanc and his rear guard at the pass to follow in their wake.

Catching a hidden glance at the Crystal Skull, Conan hoped that whatever strange power lay within would defend his rule for a dozen years – even if it could not for a thousand.


	11. Epilogue

_Epilogue _

Of the tale of the dozen years that followed, of Conan's triumphant entry into Xlantalntaca, his coronation on the throne at the apex of the Black Pyramid, and even his marriage to Huitzil, sister of Tlaloc, there is both much and little to tell. Yet amid his many adventures, his trials and tribulations, always he faced the shadow of Set and the menace of Kuthlan, which weighed ever more heavily upon him as the years passed, and led to Conan's being ensnared ever more deeply in webs of intrigue and treachery.

But, that is another story…


End file.
